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OF  rA»  IF  » iR^Af^Y.  LOS  ANGELES 


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f.-K^A'.i^'^.'i  ift  Ai,.^f.r  .^"/V  Ji>v.-v.^  .!-'.}wyw«.-  ^.Vit/iM^ti. 


WORKS 


or 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 

IBusirated  from  Designs  by  Darley  and  CfUberL 

DOMBEY  AND   SON. 


tfotnt  voLUMBii  tif  oym. 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 

Wat  EtierBiiE  Jprcgg,  Cambriige. 

1880. 


I  ■aacrtlng  to  Aet  of  Ocognm,  tm  tfe*  jmm  JStT,  ty 

HUKD  Ain>  HOVSBTOH, 

I  OiA'a  Office  at  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  DMiM  tf 
NewTock. 


wsRSisi,  euatcaom. 

•tlBIOTTPBD    AKS    PSIHTIS  BV 

■.  0.  HOUQHTOH  AHT  OOKPUIT. 


SIACX  ANNEX 


DOMBEY  AND   SON. 


VOLUME.  I. 


'QHWA  )*3Al<t 


aVLA 


PREFACE 


1  HAKE  SO  bold  as  to  believe  that  the  faculty  (or, 
Ihe- habit)  of  closely  and  carefully  observing  the  char- 
acters of  men,  is  a  rare  one.  I  have  not  even  found, 
within  my  experience,  that  the  faculty  (or  the  habit) 
of  closely  and  carefully  observing  so  much  as  the 
faces  of  men,  is  a  general  one  by  any  means.  The 
two  commonest  mistakes  in  judgment  that  I  suppose 
to  arise  from  the  former  default,  are,  the  confoundinJ^ 
of  shyness  with  arrogance,  and  the  not  understanding 
that  an  obstinate  nature  exists  in  a  perpetual  struggle 
with  itself. 

Mr.  Dombey  undergoes  no  violent  internal  change, 
either  in  this  book,  or  in  life.  A  sense  of  his  injus- 
tice is  within  him  all  along.  The  more  he  represses 
it,  the  more  unjust  he  necessarily  is.  Internal  shame 
and  ext(!rnal  circumstances  may  bring  the  contest  to 
the  surface  in  a  week,  or  a  day ;  but,  it  has  been  a 
contest  for  years,  and  is  only  fought  out  after  a  long 
balance  of  victory. 

Years  have  elapsed  since  I  dismissed  Mr.   Dombey. 


6  PREFACE. 

I  have  not  been  impatient  to  offer  this  critical  remark 
bpon  him,  and  I  offer  it  with  some  confidence. 

I  began  this  book  by  ihe  lake  of  Greneva,  and  wen* 
on  with  it  for  some  months  in  France.  The  associa- 
tion between  the  writing  and  the  place  of  writing  is  so 
curiously  strong  in  ray  mind,  that  at  this  day,  although 
I  know  every  stair  in  the  little  Midshipman's  house,  and 
could  swear  to  every  pew  in  the  church  in  which  Flor- 
ence was  married,  or  to  every  young  gentleman's  bed- 
stead in  Doctor  Blimber's  establishment,  I  yet  con- 
fusedly imagine  Captain  Cuttle  as  secluding  himself  from 
Mrs.  MacStinger  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland. 
Similarly,  when  I  am  reminded  by  any  chance  of 
what  it  was  that  the  waves  were  always  saying,  I 
wander  in  my  fancy  for  a  whole  winter  night  about 
the  streets  of  Paris  —  as  I  really  did,  with  a  heavy 
heart,  on  the  night  w^jen  my  little  friend  and  I  parted 
Bompany  forever. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  1 

CHAPTER  I.  9»m 

DOMBET  AND  SOH  ... 9 

CHAPTER  n. 
In  which  timely  Provision  is  made  for  an  Emergency  that  will 
sometimes  arise  in  the  best-regulated  Families         .        .        .    S4 

CHAPTER  HI. 
[n  which  Mr.  Dombey,  as  a  Man  and  a  Father,  is  geen  at  the  Head 
of  the  Home  Departident 89 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Tn  which  some  more  First  Appearances  are  made  on  the  Stage  of 
these  Adventures 6C 

CHAPTER  V. 
Paul's  Progress  and  Christening 7S 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Paul's  Second  Deprivation .98 

CHAPTER  VII. 
A  Bird's-eye  Glimpse  of  Miss  Tox's  Dwelling-place;  also  of  the 
State  of  Miss  Tox's  Affections 128 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Paul's  further  Progress,  Growth,  and  Character      ....  136 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Id  which  the  Wooden  Midshipman  gets  into  Trouble     .        .        .  165 

CHAPTER  X. 
C^taiiiing  the  Sequel  of  the  Midshipman's  Disaster  .       .  US 


nu  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XL  hm 

Paul's  IntiDduction  to  a  new  Scene         ......  SOS 

CHAPTER  Xn. 
Paul's  Education .  .  8U 

CHAPTER  Xm. 
Shipping  Intelligence  and  OfHce  Business 248 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Paul  grows  more  and  more  Old-fashioned,  and  goes  Home  for  the 
Holidays 2M 

CHAPTER  XV. 
Amazing  Artfulness  of  Captain  Cuttle,  and  a  new  Purauit  for  Wal- 
ter  Gay      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .801 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  H. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
What  the  "Waves  were  always  saying      .  ^   •        •        •        •  T 

CHAPTKR  XVTI. 
Captain  Cuttle  does  a  little  Business  for  the  Young  People     .        .    U 

CHAPTER  XVni. 
Father  and  Daughter .    H 

CHAPTER   XIX. 
VS^alter  goes  away 69 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Mr.  Dombey  goes  upon  a  Journey 78 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
New  Faces  99 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
h  Trifle  of  Management  by  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager     .        .        .  Ill 

CHAPTER  XXm. 
Florence  Solitary,  and  the  Midshipman  Mysterious         .        .        .  14i 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
The  Study  of  a  loving  Heart .        .  IP 


CONTENTS.  .  IX 

CHAPTER  XXV.  tAU 

Strange  News  of  Oncle  Sol      .        .       .  .       '  194 

CHAPTER  XXVI 
Shadows  of  ttie  Past  and  Future .208 

CEIAPTER  XXVII. 
Daeper  Shadows .  33S 

CHAPTER  XXVm. 
Alterations .  .254 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
The  Opening  of  the  Eyes  of  Mrs.  Chick         ...  .  278 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
The  Interval  before  the  Marriage    .......  890 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  m. 

CHAPTER  XXXL 
The  Wedding .       .        .     T 

CHAPTER  XXXn. 
The  Wooden  Midshipman  goes  to  Pieces         .     .   ,        .        .        .SI 

CHAPTER  XXXm. 
Contrasts ,  .       .    91 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Another  Mother  and  Daughter         .......    71 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
The  Happy  Pair      ........  .  M 

CHAPTER  XXXVL 
House-warming •       .  US 

CHAPTER  XXXVn. 
tfore  Warnings  than  One .  190 

CHAPTER  XXXVm. 
Hiss  Tox  improves  an  Old  Acquaintance  '      .        .  .  14f 


C  .  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX.  fa« 

Further  Adventures  of  Captain  Edward  Cuttle,  Mariner         .        .  MO 

,                                     CHAPTER  XL. 
Domestic  Relations 181 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
NeA«  Voices  in  the  Waves .  9M 

CHAPTER  XLIL 
Confidential  and  Accidental 236 

CHAPTER  XLin. 

The  Watches  of  the  Night •  naia     O.nMI 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
A  Separation •       .  Kl 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
llie  Trusty  Agent Vt 

CHAPTER  XLVL 
Becognizant  and  Reflective      .....*•  Wt 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  IV. 

CHAPTER  XLVH. 
The  Thnnderbolt f 

CHAPTER   XLVm. 
The  Flight  of  Florence U 

CHAPTER   XLIX. 
The  Midshipman  makes  a  Discovery       .        .        .        •        •        .    M 

CHAPTER  L. 
■It.  Toots's  Complaint 81 

CHAPTER  LI. 
Ur.  Dombey  and  the  World IM 

CHAPTER  UL 
Secret  Intelligeace    .        .   ' •  Hi 


CONTENTS.  a 

CHAPTER  Lin.  na 

More  Intelligence 140 

CHAPTER  LIV. 
'  The  Fugitives 163 

CHAPTER  LV. 
Rob  the  Griuder  loses  his  Place 1T9 

CHAPTER  LVI. 
Several  People  delighted,  and  the  Game  Chicken  disgusted   .        .  197 

CHAPTER  LVII. 
Another  Wedding .  230 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 
After  a  Lapse S41 

CHAPTER  LLX. 
Retribution 264 

CHAPTER  LX. 
Chiefly  Matrimonial ,  892 

CHAPTER  LXL 
Relenting ,       .  HO 

CHAPTEB  LXn. 
Had  Mi 


m¥.t=li:: 


W5i'  ... 


DOMBEY    AND    SON. 


CHAPTER  I. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON. 


DoMBET  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  darkened  room  in 
the  great  arm-chair  by  the  bedside,  and  Son  hiy  tucked 
up  warm  in  a  little  basket  bedstead,  carefully  disposed 
on  a  low  settee  immediately  iq  front  of  the  fire  and  close 
to  it,  as  if  his  constitution  were  analogous  to  that  of  a 
muffin,  and  it  was  essential  to  toast  him  brown  while  he 
was  very  new. 

Doinbey  was  about  eight-and-forty  years  of  age.  Son 
about  eight-and-forty  minutes.  Dombey  was  rather  bald, 
rather  red,  and  thujgh  a  handsome  well-made  man,  loo 
stern  and  pompous  in  apjjearance,  to  be  prepossessing. 
Son  was  very  bald,  and  very  red,  and  tliougli  (of  course) . 
an  undeniably  line  infant,  somewhat  crushed  and  spotty 
in  his  general  etlect  as  yet.  On  the  brow  of  Dombey, 
Time,  and  his  brother  Care  had  set  some  marks,  as  on  a 
t  -'."■  that  was  to  come  down  in  good  time  —  remorseless 
twins  they  are  for  striding  through  their  human  forests, 
Qolching  as  they  go —  while  the  countenance  of  Son  was 
i^,n>s.sed  and  reci'ossed  with  a  thousand  little  ertiases, 
which  the  same  deceitful  Time  would  take  delight  in 
wnoolhing  out  and  wearing  away  with  the  flat  part  of  his 


10  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Bcjtlic,  as  a  preparation  of  the  surface   for  his  deeper 
operations. 

Doinbey,  exuUing  in  the  long-looked-for  event,  jingled 
and  jingled  the  heavy  gold  watch-chain  that  dc()endu(l 
from  below  his  trfni  blue  coat,  whereof  the  button 
Bparkk'd  phosphoresccntly  in  the  feeble  rays  of  the  di- 
tant  lire.  Son,  with  his  little  fists  curled  up  and  cliiieht«l, 
Bceined,  in  his  feeble  way,  to  be  squaring  at  existence  for 
liaving  come  upon  him  so  unexpectedly. 

"  The  house  will  once  again,  jNIrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr 
Dijrabey,  "  be  not  only  in  name  but  in  fact  Dombey  and 
Son  ;  Dom-bey  and  Son  !  " 

The  words  had  such  a  softening  influence,  that  he  i{\f 
pended  a  term  of  endearment  to  Mrs.  Dombey 's  name 
(though  not  without  some  hesitiition,  as  being  a  man  but 
Utile  used  to  that  ibrm  of  address)  :  and  sjiid,  "  Mi*s. 
Dombey,  my  —  my  dear." 

A  transient  flush  of  faint  surprise  overspread  the  sick 
lady's  face  as  she  raised  her  eyes  towai-ds  him. 

"  lie  will  be  christened  Paul,  my  —  Mrs.  Dombey  — 
oi'  course." 

She  feebly  echoed,  "  Of  course,"  or  rather  expressed 
it  by  the  motion  of  her  lips,  and  clo?ed  her  eyes  again. 

**  His  father's  name,  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  his  grand- 
father's !  I  wish  his  grandfather  were  alive  this  day  I  '* 
And  again  he  said  "  Dom-bey  and  Son,"  in  exactly  the 
same  tone  as  before. 

Those  three  words  conveyed  the  one  idea  of  Mv.  Dom- 
bey's  life.  The  earth  was  made  for  Dombey  and  Son  to 
n-atle  in,  and  the  sun  and  moon  were  made  to  give  them 
light.  Rivers  and  seas  were  formed  to  float  their  ships  ; 
rain!>ows  ga\e  them  promise  of  fair  weather;  winds  blew 
for  or  against  their  enterprises;  stars  and  planets  circled 


DOMBEV  AXb   SON.  11 

in  their  orbits,  to  preserve  inviolate  a  system  of  which 
they  wei'e  tlie  centre.  Common  abbreviations  took  new 
meanings  in  bis  ayvsi)  and  bad  sole  reference  to  them 
A-D.  bad  no  concern  with  anno  Domini,  but  stood  foi 
anno  Dombei  —  and  Son. 

He  had  risen,  as  bis  father  liad  before  him,  in  th 
course  of  life  .and  death,  from  Son  to  Dombey,  and  fo- 
nearly  twenty  years  liad  been  the  sole  representative  of 
the  firm.  Of  those  years  he  bad  been  married,  ten  — 
married,  as  some  said,  to  a  lady  with  no  heart  to  give 
him  ;  whose  happiness  was  in  the  past,  and  who  was  con- 
tent to  bind  her  broken  spirit  to  the  dutiful  and  meek  en- 
dui-ance  of  the  present.  Such  idle  talk  was  little  likely 
to  reach  the  ears  of  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  it  nearly  con- 
cerned ;  and  probably  no  one  in  the  world  would  liavf. 
ri'ceived  it  with  such  utter  incredulity  as  be,  if  it  bad 
reached  him.  Dombey  and  Son  had  often  dealt  in  hides, 
but  never  in  hearts.  They  left  that  fancy  ware  to  boys 
and  girls,  and  boarding-schools  and  books.  Mr.  Dombey 
wotdd  have  reasoned  :  That  a  matrimonial  alliance  with 
himself  must,  in  the  nature  oi'  things,  be  gratifying  and 
honorable  to  any  woman  of  common  sense.  That  the 
liope  of  giving  birth  to  a  new  partner  in  such  a  liouse, 
could  not  fail  to  awaken  a  glorious  and  stirring  ambition 
in  the  br<;ast  of  the  least  ambitious  of  her  sex.  That 
Mrs.  Dombey  had  entered  on  that  social  contract  (»f 
matrimony :  almost  necessarily  part  of  a  genteel  and 
wealthy  station,  even  without  reference  to  the  perpetu- 
ation of  family  firms :  with  her  eyes  fully  open  to  these 
advantages.  That  Mrs.  Dombey  had  had  daily  practicid 
knowledge  of  his  position  in  society.  That  Mrs.  Dora- 
oey  had  always  sat  at  the  head  of  his  table,  and  done  the 
honors  of  his  house  in  a  remarkably  lady-like  and  becom- 


li!  DOMBEY  A^^D  SON. 

big  manner.  That  Mrs.  Dombey  must  have  been  happy, 
That  she  couldn't  help  it. 

Or,  at  all  events,  with  one  drawback.  Yes.  That  he 
would  have  allowed.  With  only  one  ;  but  that  one  cer- 
tainly involving  much.  They  had  been  married  ten 
years,  and  until  this  present  day  on  which  Mr.  Dombey 
sat  jingling  and  jingling  his  heavy  gold  watcli-chain  in  the 
great  arm-chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  had  had  no  issue. 

—  To  speak  of ;  none  worth  mentioning.  There  had 
been  a  girl  some  six  years  before,  and  the  child,  who  had 
stolen  into  the  chamber  unobserved,  was  now  crouching 
timidly,  in  a  corner  whence  she  could  see  her  mother's 
face.  But  what  was  a  girl  to  Dombey  and  Son !  Iij 
the  capital  of  the  House's  name  and  dignity,  such  a 
child  was  merely  a  piece  of  base  coin  that  couldn't  be 
invested  —  a  bad  boy  —  nothing  more. 

Mr.  Dombey's  cup  of  satisfaction  was  so  full  at  this 
moment,  however,  that  he  felt  he  could  afford  a  drop  or 
two  of  its  contents,  even  to  sprinkle  on  the  dust  in  the 
by-path  of  his  little  daughter. 

So  he  said,  "  Florence,  you  may  go  and  look  at  your 
pretty  brother,  if  you  like,  I  dare  say.  Don't  touch 
him ! " 

The  child  glanced  keenly  at  the  blue  coat  and  stiff 
white  cravat,  which,  with  a  pair  of  creaking  boots  and  a 
very  loud-ticking  watch,  embodied  her  idea  of  a  father ; 
but  her  eyes  returned  to  her  mother's  face  imraedialeljf, 
and  she  neither  moved  nor  answered. 

Next  moment,  the  lady  had  opened  her  eyes  and  seen 
(he  child ,  and  the  child  had  run  towaixis  her ;  and, 
Dlanding  on  tiptce,  the  better  to  hide  her  face  in  her  em- 
brace, had  clung  about  her  with  a  desperate  affection 
very  much  at  variance  with  her  years. 


DOMBEY  ^SJND   SON.  13 

Oh  Lord  bless  me  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  riain^i;  testily 
"  A  veiy  ill-advised  and  feverish  proceeding  this,  I  am 
sure.  I  had  better  ask  Doctor  Peps  if  he'll  have  the 
goodness  to  step  up-stairs  again  perhaps.  I'll  go  down. 
I'll  go  down.  I  needn't  beg  you,"  he  added,  pauring  foj 
B  moment  at  the  settee  before  the  fire,  "  to  take  parlicu- 
Iat  care  of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs. " 

"  Blockitt,  sir  ? "  suggested  the  nurse,  a  simpering 
piece  of  faded  gentility,  who  did  not  presume  to  state 
her  name  as  a  fact,  but  merely  offered  it  as  a  mild  sug- 
f»e8tion. 

"  Of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Blockitt." 

"  No,  sir,  indeed.  I  remember  when  Miss  Florence 
vas  born  "  — 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  bending  over  the 
basket  bedstead,  and  slightly  bending  his  brows  at  the 
same  time.  "  Miss  Florence  was  all  very  well,  but  this 
is  another  matter.  This  young  gentleman  has  to  accom- 
plish a  destiny.  A  destiny,  little  fellow  !  "  As  he  thus 
apostrophized  the  infant  he  raised  one  of  bis  hands  to 
his  lips,  and  kissed  it;  then,  seeming  to  fear  that  the 
action  involved  some  compromise  of  his  dignity,  went, 
awkwardly  enough,  away. 

Doctor  Parker  Peps,  one  of  the  court  physicians,  and 
R  man  of  immense  reputation  for  assisting  at  the  increase 
of  great  families,  was  walking  up  and  dowTi  the  drawing- 
room  with  his  hands  behind  him,  to  the  unspeakable 
alniiration  of  the  family  surgeon,  who  had  regularly 
puffed  the  case  for  the  last  six  weeks,  among  all  his  pa- 
tients, friends,  and  acquaintances,  as  one  to  which  he 
was  in  hourly  expectation  day  and  night  of  being  suni- 
tnoned,  in  conjunction  with  Doctor  Parker  Peps. 

"  Well  sir, '"  said  Dc^ctor  Parker  Peps  in  a  round,  deep, 


14  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

Bciioi-ou*  voice,  muffled  for  the  occasion,  like  lliv.  kno>;kfcr, 
'^  do  you  find  that  your  dear  lady  is  at  all  I'oused  by 
your  visit  ?  " 

"  Stimulated,  as  it  were  ?  "  said  the  family  practitioner, 
faintly  ;  bowing  at  the  same  time  to  the  doctor,  as  muih 
as  lo  say,  "  Excuse  my  putting  in  a  word,  but  this  is  a 
valuable  connection." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  quite  discomfited  by  the  question. 
He  had  thought  so  little  of  the  patient^  that  he  was  not 
in  a  condition  to  answer  it.  He  said  that  it  would  be  a 
sjilisfaction  to  him,  if  Doctor  Parker  Peps  would  walk 
up-stairs  again. 

"  Good !  We  must  not  disguise  from  you,  sir,"  said 
Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "  that  there  is  a  want  of  power  in 
Her  Grace  the  Duchess  —  1  beg  your  pardon;  1  con- 
found names  ;  1  should  say,  in  your  amiable  lady.  That 
there  is  a  certain  degree  of  languor,  and  a  general  ab- 
sence of  elasticity,  which  we  would  rather  —  not"  — 

"  See,"  inter[K)sed  the  family  practitioner,  witli  aiiotlier 
inclination  of  the  head. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "  which  we 
would  rather  not  see.  It  would  appear  that  the  system 
of  Lady  Caukaby  —  excuse  me  ;  1  should  say  of  hln. 
Dombey :  1  confuse  the  names  of  cases "  — 

"  So  very  numerous,"  murmured  the  family  practitioner 
—  "can't  be  expected,  Pra  sure  —  quite  wonderful  if 
otherwise  —  Doctor  Parker  Peps's  west-end  practice  "  — 

"  Tliank  you,"  said  the  doctor,  "quite  so.  It  would 
nppoar,  I  was  observing,  that  the  system  of  our  patient 
lias  sustained  a  shock  from  which  it  can  only  hope  to 
rally  by  a  great  and  strong"  — 

*'  And  vigorous,"  murmured  the  family  practitioner. 

"  Quite  so,"  assenteii  the  doctor  —  "  and  vigorous  ef- 


DOJLBEY   ASD   SON.  15 

fort-  Mi.  it'ilkins  here,  who  from  his  pojilion  of  mtdical 
ndviocr  in  this  family  —  no  one  belter  (lualified  to  hil 
that  position,  1  am  sure." 

"  Oh  !"  murmured  the  family  practitioner.  "'l*raij€ 
fiom  Sir  Hubert  Stanley!'" 

"  You  are  good  enough,"  returned  Doctor  Parke? 
P8i)8,  "  to  say  so.  Mr.  Pilkins  who,  from  his  position, 
is  best  acquainted  with  the  patient's  constitution  in  its 
Qormal  state  (an  acquaintance  very  valuable  to  us  in 
forming  our  opinions  on  these  occasions),  is  of  opinion 
with  me,  that  Nature  must  be  called  upon  to  make  a 
vigorous  effort  in  this  instance  ;  and  that  if  our  interest- 
ing friend  the  Countess  of  Dombey  —  I  beg  your  pai'- 
don  !  Mrs.  Dombey  —  should  not  be  "  — 

"Able,"  said  the  family  practitioner. 

"  To  make  that  etl'ort  successfully,"  said  Doctor  Par 
ker  Peps,  "  then  a  crisis  might  arise,  which  we  should 
both  sincerely  deplore." 

Witli  tliat,  they  stood  for  a  few  seconds  looking  at  the 
ground.  Then,  on  the  motion  —  made  in  dumb  show  — 
ol"  Doctor  Parker  Pep.-,  they  went  up-stairs;  the  family 
practitioner  opening  the  room-door  for  that  distinguishec' 
professional,  and  following  him  out  with  most  obsequious 
politeness. 

To  record  of  IMr.  Dombey  that  he  was  not  in  his  way 
nOToctfcd  by  this  intelligence,  would  be  to  do  him  an  injus- 
tice, lie  was  not  a  man  of  whom  it  could  properly  be 
said  that  he  was  ever  startled  or  shocked  ;  but  he  cer- 
-linly  had  a  sense  within  him,  that  if  his  wife  should 
Ricken  and  decay,  he  would  be  very  sorry,  and  liiai  he 
would  find  a  something  gone  from  among  his  plate  and 
(urnilure,  and  other  household  possessions,  which  was 
Weil  worth  the  having,- and  could  not  be  lost  without  .«in 


16  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

nere  regret.  Though  it  would  be  a  cool,  business  liko, 
gentlemanly,  oelf-possessed  regret,  no  doubt. 

His  meditations  on  the  subject  were  soon  interrupted, 
first  by  tlie  rustling  of  garments  on  the  staircase,  and 
then  by  the  sudden  whisking  into  the  room  of  a  lady 
jalher  past  the  middle  age  than  otherwise,  but  dressed 
in  a  very  juvenile  manner,  particularly  as  to  the  tight- 
ness of  her  bodice,  who,  running  up  to  him  with  a  kind 
of  screw  in  her  face  and  carriage,  expressive  of  sup- 
pressed emotion,  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and 
said  in  a  choking  voice, 

"•  My  dear  Paul !     He's  quite  a  Dorabey  !  " 

"  Well,  well !  "  returned  her  brother  —  for  Mr.  Dom- 
Ix-y  was  her  brother  —  "I  think  he  is  like  the  family. 
Don't  agitate  yourself,  Louisa." 

''  It's  veiy  foolish  of  me,"  said  Louisa,  sitting  down, 
and  taking  out  her  pocket-handkerchief,  "  but  he's  — - 
he's  such  a  perfect  Donibey  !  /  never  saw  anything 
like  it  in  my  life  I  " 

"  But  what  is  this  about  Fanny,  herself  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Donibey.     "  How  is  P'anny  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  returned  Louisa,  "  it's  nothing  what- 
ever. Take  my  word,  it's  nothing  whatever.  There  is 
exhaustion,  certainly,  but  nothing  like  what  I  underwent 
myself,  either  with  George  or  Frederick.  An  eflbrt  la 
necessaiy.  That's  all.  If  <lear  Fanny  were  a  Domljcy  I 
—  But  I  dare  say  she'll  make  it ;  1  have  no  doubt  she'll 
make  it.  Knowing  it  to  be  required  of  her,  as  a  duly, 
of  course  she'll  make  it.  IMy  dear  l^aul.  it's  very  weak 
and  silly  of  me,  I  know,  to  be  so  trembly  and  shaky 
from  head  to  foot ;  but  I  am  so  very  queer  that  I  musl 
ask  you  for  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  morsel  of  that  cake. 
I  Ihought  I  should  have  fallen  out  of  the  staircase  win 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  17 

dow  35  I  came  down  from  seeing  dear  Fanny,  and  that, 
riddy  ickle  sing."  TItese  last  words  originated  in  a  sud- 
den vivid  reminiscence  of  the  hahy. 

They  were  succeeded  by  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door. 
,i."  Mrs.  Chick,"  said  a  very  bland  female  voice  outside. 
•*  how  are  you  now,  my  dear  friend  ?  " 

•'  j\Iy  dear  Paul,"  said  Louisa  in  a  low  voice,  as  Ai 
xose  fi'oni  her  seat,  "  it's  Miss  Tox.     The  kindest  crea- 
ture!    I  never  could  have  got  here  without  her!     Miss 
Tox,  my  brother  Mr.  Dombey.     Paul  my  dear,  my  very 
particular  friend  Jiliss  Tox." 

The  lady  thus  specially  presented,  was  a  long  lean 
figure,  wearing  such  a  faded  air  that  she  seemed  not  to 
have  been  made  in  what  linen-drapers  call  "  fast  colors  " 
originally,  and  to  have,  by  little  and  little,  washed  out. 
But  for  this  she  might  have  been  described  as  the  very 
pink  of  general  propitiation  and  politeness.  From  a 
long  habit  of  listening  admirably  to  everything  that  was 
said  in  her  presence,  and  looking  at  the  speakers  as  if 
she  were  mentally  engaged  in  taking  off  impressions  of 
their  images  upon  her  soul,  never  to  part  with  the  same 
but  with  life,  her  head  had  quite  settled  on  one  side. 
Her  hands  had  contracted  a  spasmodic  habit  of  raising 
themselves  of  their  own  accord  as  an  involuntai-y  admi- 
ration. Her  eyes  were  liable  to  a  similar  affection. 
She  had  the  softest  voice  that  ever  was  heard ;  and  hei 
nose,  stupendously  aquiline,  had  a  Httle  knob  in  the 
\ery  centre  or  keystone  of  the  bridge,  whence  it  tended 
downwards  towards  her  fare,  as  in  an  invincible  deter- 
mination never  to  turn  up  at  anything. 

Miss  Tox'.-i  dress,  though  perfectly  genteel  and  good, 
had   a  certain    character  of  angularity  and   seanliness. 
She  was  accustomed  to  wear  odd  weedy  little  flowers  in 
vol,.  I.  2 


18  DOJrBET  AND  SOBT. 

her  bonnets  and  caps.  Strange  grasses  were  soraetimps 
perceived  in  her  hair ;  and  it  was  observed  by  the  curi- 
ous, of  all  her  collai-s,  frills,  tuckers,  wristbands,  and 
other  gossamer  articles  —  indeed  of  everything  she  wore 
which  had  two  ends  to  it  intended  to  unite — that  the 
two  ends  were  never  on  good  terms,  and  wouldn't  quite 
raeet  without  a  struggle.  She  had  furry  articles  for 
winter  wear,  as  tippets,  boas,  and  muffs,  which  stood  ap 
on  end  in  a  rampant  manner,  and  were  not  at  all  sleek. 
She  was  much  given  to  the  carrying  about  of  small  bags 
with  snaps  to  them,  that  went  off  like  little  pistols  when 
they  were  shut  up ;  and  ,when  full-dressed,  she  wore 
round  her  neck  the  barrenest  of  lockets,  representing  a 
fishy  old  eye  with  no  approach  to  speculation  in  it. 
These  and  other  appearances  of  a  similar  nature,  had 
served  to  propagate  the  opinion,  that  jVIiss  Tox  was  a 
lady  of  what  is  called  a  limited  independence,  which  she 
turned  to  the  best  account.  Possibly  her  mincing  gait 
encouraged  the  belief,  and  suggested  that  her  clipping  a 
step  of  ordinary  compass  into  two  or  three,  originated  in 
her  habit  of  making  the  most  of  everj'thing. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  prodigious  courte- 
By,  "  that  to  have  the  honor  of  being  presented  to  Mr. 
Dombey  is  a  distinction  which  I  have  long  sought,  but 
very  little  expected  at  the  present  moment.  My  dear 
Mrs.  Chick  —  may  I  say  Louisa  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  took  Miss  Tox's  hand  in  hers,  rested  lii« 
fijot  of  her  wine-glass  upon  it,  repressed  a  tear,  and  said 
ill  a  low  voice  "  Bless  you  !  " 

''  My  dear  Louisa  then,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  ray  syre^ 
friend,  how  are  you  now  ?  " 

"  Better,"  Mis.  Chick  returned.  "  Take  some  wine. 
You  have  been  almost  as  anxious  as  I  have  l>een,  and 
anust  want  it,  I  am  sure." 


noMBET  A^^D  son.  ,  19 

Mr.  Doinhey  of  course  officiated.  -  iv','   -: 

"  Miss  Tox,  Paul,"  pui-sued  Mrs.  Chick,  still  retaining 
her  hand,  "  knowing  how  much  I  have  been  interested  in 
tlie  anticipation  of  the  event  of  to-day,  has  been  working 
at  a  little  jrift  for  Fanny,  which  I  promised  to  present 
It  is  only  a  pincushion  for  the  toilet  table,  Paul,  but  ] 
do  any,  and  will  say,  and  must  say,  that  Miss  Tox  ha? 
Very  prettily  adapted  the  sentiment  to  the  occasion  J 
PS. 11  'Welcome  little   Dombey '  poetry,  myself!" 

"  Is  that  the  device  ?  "  inquired  her  brother. 

•'Ihat  is  the  device,"  returned   Louisa. 

"But  do  me  the  justice  to  remember,  my  dear  Louisa," 
Baid  ISIiss  Tox  in  a  tone  of  low  and  earnest  entreaty, 
"  that  nothing  but  the  —  1  have  some  difficulty  in  ex- 
pressing myself — the  dubiousness  of  the  result  would 
have  induced  me  to  take  so  great  a  liberty:  'Welcome, 
Master  Dombey,*  would  have  been  much  more  congenial 
to  my  feelings,  as  I  am  sure  you  know.  But  the  uncer- 
tainty attendant  on  angelic  strangers,  will,  I  hope,  ex- 
cuse; what  must  otlierwise  appear  an  unwaj-rantable  fa- 
miliarity." Miss  Tox  made  a  graceful  bend  as  she  spoke, 
in  favor  of  Mr.  Dombey,  which  that  gentleman  graciously 
acknowledged.  Even  the  sort  of  recognition  of  Dombey 
and  Son,  conveyed  in  the  foregoing  conversation,  was 
so  palatal)le  to  him,  that  his  sister,  Mrs.  Chick  —  though 
he  alfected  to  consider  her  a  weak  good-natured  person 
—  had  perhaps  more  influence  over  him  than  anybody 
?!?e. 

"  Well ! "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  sweet  smile,  "  after 
Ihis,  I  forgive  Fanny  everything  !  " 

It  was  a  declaration  in  a  Christian  spirit,  and  Mrs. 
Chick  felt  that  it  did  her  good.  Not  that  she  had  any- 
thing particular  to  forgive  in  her  sister-in-law,  nor  indeed 


20  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

nnything  at  all,  except  her  having  married  her  brother 
—  in  itself  a  species  of  audacity  —  and  her  having,  in 
the  course  of  events,  given  birth  to  a  girl  instead  of  a 
boy :  which,  as  Mi-s.  Chick  had  frequently  observed,  was 
not  quite  what  she  had  expected  of  her,  and  was  not  a 
pleasant  return  for  all  the  attention  and  distinction  she 
had  met  with. 

Mr.  Donibey  being  hastily  summoned  out  of  the  room 
at  this  moment,  the  two  ladies  were  left  alone  together. 
Miss  Tox  immediately  became  spasmodic 

"  I  knew  you  would  admire  my  brother.  I  told  yoi 
BO  beforehand,  my  dear,"  said  Louisa. 

Miss  Tox's  hands  and  eyes  expressed  how  much. 

**  And  as  to  his  property,  my  dear !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Miss  Tox,  with  deep  feeling. 

"  Im — mense !  " 

"  But  his  deportment,  my  dear  Louisa ! "  said  Miss 
Tox.  "  His  presence !  His  dignity!  No  portrait  that  1 
have  ever  seen  of  any  one  has  been  half  so  replete  with 
those  qualities.  Something  so  stately,  you  know  :  so  un- 
compromising:  so  very  wide  across  the  chest:  so  upright! 
A  pecuniary  Duke  of  York,  my  love,  and  nothing  short 
of  it !  "  said  Miss  Tox.  "  That's  what  /  should  desig- 
uate  him." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Paul !  "  exclaimed  his  sister,  as  he 
returned,  "  you  look  quite  pale  !  There's  nothing  tha 
matter  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Louisa,  that  they  tell  me  thai 
Fanny"  — 

"  Now,  ray  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister  rising, 
"  don't  believe  it.  If  you  have  any  reliance  on  my  ex- 
perience, Paul,  you  may  rest  assured  that  there  is  noth- 
ing wanting  but  an  effort  on  Fanny's  part.     And  tliat 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  21 

pfTort,"  she  continued,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  adjust 
mg  her  cap  and  gloves,  in  a  business-like  manner,  "  she 
must  be  encouraged,  and  really,  if  necessary,  urged  to 
make.     Now,  my  dear  Paul,  come  up-stairs  with  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who,  besides  being  generally  influenced 
by  his  sister  for  the  reason  already  mentioned,  had 
really  faith  in  her  as  an  experienced  and  bustling 
matron,  acquiesced;  andfollowed  her,  at  once,  to  the 
sick-chamber. 

The  lady  lay  upon  her  bed  as  he  had  left  her,  clasp- 
ing her  little  daughter  to  her  breast.  The  child  clung 
close  about  her,  with  the  same  intensity  as  before,  and 
never  raised  her  head,  or  moved  her  soft  cheek  from  her 
mother's  face,  or  looked  on  those  who  stood  around,  or 
spoke,  or  moved,  or  shed  a  tear. 

''  Restless  without  the  little  girl,"  the  doctor  whispered 
Mr.  Dombej'.     "  We  found  it  best  to  have  her  in  again." 

There  was  such  a  solemn  stillness  round  the  bed ;  and 
the  two  medical  attendants  seemed  to  look  on  the  impas- 
sive form  with  so  much  compassion  and  so  little  hope,  that 
Mrs.  Chick  was  for  the  moment  diverted  from  her  pur- 
pose. But  presently  summoning  courage,  and  what  she 
called  presence  of  mind,  she  sat  down  by  the  bedside, 
and  said  in  the  low  precise  tone  of  one  who  endeavors  to 
•waken  a  sh-eper :  — 

"  Fanny  !  Fanny  !  " 

Thei-e  was  no  sound  in  answer  but  the  loud  licking  of 
Mr.  Dombey's  watch  and  Doctor  Parker  Peps's  watch, 
whi:;h  seemed  in  the  silence  to  be  running  a  i-ace. 

"  Fanny,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  assumed 
lightness,  "  here's  Mr.  Dombey  come  to  see  you.  Won't 
pu  speak  to  him?  They  want  to  lay  your  little  boy  — 
the  baby,  Fanny,  you  know  ;  you  liav^  hardly  soen  hini 


22  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

yet,  I  think  —  hi  bed ;  but  they  can't  till  you  rouse  your* 
Belf  a  little.  Don't  you  think  it's  time  you  moused  your* 
self  a  little?     Eh?" 

She  bent  her  ear  to  the  bed,  and  listened:  at  the  same 
time  looking  round  at  the  by-standers,  and  holding  up  her 
finger. 

"  Eh  ?  "  she  repeated,  "  what  was  it  you  said,  Fanny  ? 
I  didn't  hear  you." 

No  word  or  sound  in  answer.  Mr.  Dombey's  watch 
and  Dr.  Parker  Peps's  watch  seemed  to  be  racing  faster. 

"  Now,  really  Fanny  my  dear,"  said  the  sister-in-law, 
altering  her  position,  and  speaking  less  confidently,  and 
more  earnestly,  in  spite  of  herself,  "  I  shall  have  to  be 
quite  cross  with  you,  if  you  don't  rouse  yourself.  It's 
necessary  for  you  to  make  an  effort,  and  perhaps  a  very 
great  and  painful  effort  which  you  are  not  disposed  to 
make ;  but  this  is  a  world  of  effort  you  know,  Fanny, 
and  we  must  never  yield,  when  so  much  depends  upon 
us.  Come  !  Try !  I  must  really  scold  you  if  you 
don't!"     _    ^, 

The  race  in  the  ensuing  pause  was  fierce  and  furious. 
The  watches  seemed  to  jostle,  and  to  trip  each  other 

np- 

"  Fanny  !  "  said  Louisa,  glancing  round,  with  a  gath- 
ering alarm.  "  Only  look  at  me.  Only  open  your  eyes 
to  show  me  that  you  hear  and  understand  me ;  will  you  ? 
Good  Heaven,  gentlemen,  what  is  to  be  done  !  " 

The  two  medical  attendants  exchanged  a  look  across 
the  bed ;  and  the  physician,  stooping  down,  whispered 
in  the  child's  ear.  Not  having  understood  the  purport 
of  his  whisper,  the  little  creature  turned  her  perfectly 
colorless  face,  and  deep  dark  eyes  towards  him ;  buf 
irithout  loosening  her  hold  in  the  least. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  2o 

The  whisper  was  repeated. 

"  Mama  !  "  said  the  child. 

The  little  voice,  familiar  and  dearlj  loved,  awakened 
wrae  show  of  consciousness,  even  at  that  ebb.  For  a 
moment,  the  closed  eyelids  trembled,  and  the  nostril  quiv- 
ered, and  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  was  seen. 

"  Mama ! "  cried  the  child  sobbing  aloud.  "  Oh  dear 
mama  !  oh  dear  mama  !  " 

The  doctor  gently  brushed  the  scattered  ringlets  of 
the  child,  aside  from  the  face  and  mouth  of  the  mother. 
Alas  how  calm  they  lay  there;  how  little  breath  there 
was  to  stir  them  ! 

Thus,  clinging  fast  to  that  slight  spar  within  her  arms, 
the  mother  drifted  out  upon  the  dark  and  unknown  seH 
that  rolls  round  all  the  world. 


24  DOMBET  AND  SOS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

l^  WUICn  TIMELY  PROVISION  IS  MADE  FOR  AN  EMERGENCY 
THAT  WILL  SOMETIMES  ARISE  IN  THE  BEST-REGULATED 
FAMILIES. 

"  I  SHALL  never  cease  to  congratulate  myself,"  said 
Mi's.  Chick,  "  on  having  said,  when  I  little  thought  what 
was  in  store  for  us,  —  really  as  if  I  was  inspired  by 
something,  —  that  I  forgave  poor  dear  Fanny  every- 
thing. Whatever  happens,  that  must  always  be  a  com- 
fort to  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  made  this  impressive  observation  in  the 
drawing-room,  after  having  descended  thither  from  the 
inspection  of  the  mantua-makers  up-stairs,  who  were 
busy  on  the  family  mourning.  She  delivered  it  for  the 
behoof  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  was  a  stout  bald  gentleman, 
with  a  very  large  face,  and  his  hands  continually  in  his 
pockets,  and  who  had  a  tendency  in  his  nature  to  whistle 
and  hum  tunes,  which,  sensible  of  the  indecorum  of  such 
sounds  in  a  house  of  grief,  he  was  at  some  pains  to  re- 
press at  present. 

"  Don't  you  over-exert  yourself.  Loo,"  said  Mr.  Chick, 
"  or  you'll  be  laid  up  with  spasms,  I  see.  Right  tol  loor 
rul !  Bless  my  soul,  I  forgot !  We're  here  one  day  and 
gone  the  next ! " 

Mrs.  Chick  contented  herself  with  a  glance  of  reproof 
and  then  proceeded  with  the  thread  of  her  discourse. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  35 

"  J  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  I  hope  this  heart-rending 
occurrence  will  be  a  warning  to  all  of  us,  to  accustom 
ourselves  to  rouse  ourselves  and  to  make  efforts  in  time 
where  they're  required  of  us.  There's  a  moral  in  every- 
thing, if  we  would  only  avail  oui-selves  of  it.  It  will  be 
our  own  faults  if  we  lose  sight  of  this  one." 

Mr.  Chick  invaded  the  grave  silence  which  ensued  on 
this  remark  with  the  singularly  inappropriate  air  of  "  A 
cobbler  there  was  ;  "  and  checking  himself,  in  some  con- 
fusion, observed,  that  it  was  undoubtedly  our  own  faults 
if  we  didn't  improve  such  melancholy  occasions  as  the 
present. 

"  Which  might  be  better  improved,  I  should  think, 
Mr.  C,"  retorted  his  helpmate  after  a  short  pause,  "  than 
by  the  introduction,  either  of  the  college  hornpipe,  or  the 
equally  unmeaning  and  unfeeling  remark  of  rump-te- 
iddity,  bow-wow-wow ! "  which  Mr.  Chick  had  indeed 
indulged  in,  under  his  breath,  and  which  Mrs.  Chick 
repeated  in  a  tone  of  withering  scorn. 

"  Merely  habit,  my  dear,"  pleaded  Mr.  Chick. 

"  Nonsense  !  Habit !  "  returned  his  wife.  "  If  you're 
a  rational  being,  don't  make  such  ridiculous  excuses. 
Habit !  If  I  was  to  get  a  habit  (as  you  call  it)  of 
walking  on  the  ceiling  like  the  flies,  I  should  hear 
enough  of  it,  I  dare  say." 

It  appeared  so  probable  that  such  a  habit  might  be 
attended  with  some  degree  of  notoriety,  that  Mr.  Chick 
didn't  venture  to  dispute  the  position. 

"  How's  the  baby.  Loo  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Chick  :  to  change 
the  subject. 

"  What  baby  do  you  mean  ?  "  answered  Mrs.  Chick. 
"I  am  sui*e  the  morning  I  have  had,  with  that  dining- 
room  down-stairs  one  mass  of  babies,  no  one  in  theix 
lenses  would  believe." 


^6  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

**  One  mass  of  babies ! "  repeated  Mr.  Chick,  staring 
with  an  alarmed  expression  about  him. 

**  It  would  have  occurred  to  most  men,"  said  Mra. 
Chick,  "  that  poor  dear  Fanny  being  no  more,  it  be- 
comes necessary  to  provide  a  nurse." 

"  Oh  !  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Chick.  "  Toor-rul  —  such  ii 
life,  I  mean.     1  hope  you  are  suited,  my  dear." 

"  Indeed  I  am  not,*"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  *'  nor  likely 
to  be,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  Meanwhile,  of  course,  the 
cLild  is"  — 

"  Going  to  the  very  deuse,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  thought- 
fiiUy,  "  to  be  sure." 

Admonished,  however,  that  he  had  committed  him- 
self, by  the  indignation  expressed  in  Mrs.  Chick's  coun- 
tenance at  the  idea  of  a  Dombey  going  there ;  and 
thinking  to  atone  for  his  misconduct  by  a  bright  sug- 
gestion, he  added :  — 

"  Couldn't  something  temporary  be  done  with  a  tea- 
pot?" 

If  he  had  meant  to  bring  the  subject  prematurely  to 
a  close,  he  could  not  have  done  it  more  effectually. 
After  looking  at  him  for  some  moments  in  silent  resig- 
nation, Mrs.  Chick  walked  majestically  to  the  window 
and  peeped  through  the  blind,  attracted  by  the  sound 
of  wheels.  Mr.  Chick,  finding  that  his  destiny  was,  for 
the  time,  against  him,  said  no  more,  and  walked  off.  But 
it  was  not  always  thus  with  Mr.  Chick.  He  was  often 
in  the  ascendant  himself,  and  at  those  times  punished 
Louisa  roundly.  In  their  matrimonial  bickerings  they 
were,  upon  the  whole,  a  well-matched,  fairly  balanced, 
give-and-take  couple.  It  would  have  been,  generally 
gpeaking,  very  difficult  to  have  betted  on  the  winner 
Ofleit  when  Mr.  Chick  seemed   beaten,  he  would  sud* 


DOMBET  AJSD  SON-  27 

denly  make  a  start,  turn  the  tables,  clatter  them  about  ■ 
the  ears  of  Mrs.  Chick,  and  carry  all  before  him.     Be- 
ing liable   himself  to  similar  unlooked-for  checks   from 
Mrs.    Chick,    their    little   contests    usually    possessed   a 
iharacter  of  uncertainty  that  was  very  animating. 

Miss  Tox  had  arrived  on  the  wheels  just  now  alluded 
to,  and  came  running  into  the  room  in  a  breathless  con- 
dition. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  is  the  vacancy 
still  unsupplied  ?  " 

**  You  good  soul,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Then,  my  dear  Louisa,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "  I  hope 
and  believe  —  but  in  one  moment,  my  dear,  I'll  introduce 
the  party." 

Running  down-stairs  again  as  fast  as  she  had  run  up, 
Miss  Tox  got  the  party  out  of  the  hackney-coach,  and 
soon  returned  with  it  under  convoy. 

It  then  appeared  that  she  had  used  the  word,  not  :n 
its  legal  or  business  acceptation,  when  it  merely  expresses 
an  individual,  but  as  a  noun  of  multitude,  or  signifying 
many :  for  Miss  Tox  escorted  a  plump  rosy-cheeked 
wholesome  apple-faced  young  woman,  with  an  infant  in 
Jier  arms;  a  younger  woman  not  so  plump,  but  apple- 
faced  also,  who  led  a  plump 'and  apple-faced  child  in 
each  hand ;  another  plump  and  also  apple-faced  boy 
who  walked  by  himself;  and  finally,  a  plump  and  ap- 
lie-faced  man,  who  carried  in  his  arms  another  plump 
and  apple-faced  boy,  whom  he  stood  down  on  the  floor, 
and  admonished  in  a  husky  whisper,  to  "  kitch  hold  cf 
his  brother  Johnny." 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  knowing  your 
great  anxiety,  and  wishing  'o  relieve  it,  I  posted  off 
myself  to  the  Queen  Charlotte  s  Royal  Mai'risd  Females, 


28  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

which  you  had  forgot,  and  put  the  question,  Was  there 
anybody  there  that  they  thought  would  suit  ?  No,  they 
said,  there  was  not.  "When  they  gave  me  that  answer, 
I  do  assure  you,  my  dear,  I  was  almost  driven  to  despair 
on  your  account.  But  it  did  so  happen,  that  one  of  the 
Royal  Married  Females,  hearing  the  inquiry,  reminded 
the  matron  of  another  who  had  gone  to  her  own  home, 
and  who,  she  said,  would  in  all  likelihood  be  most  satis- 
factory. The  moment  I  heard  this,  and  had  it  corrob- 
orated by  the  matron  —  excellent  references  and  unim- 
peachable character  —  I  got  the  address,  my  dear,  and 
posted  off  again." 

"  Like  the  dear  good  Tox,  you  are ! "  said  Louisa. 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  '•  DonH  say  sc. 
Arriving  at  the  house  (the  cleanest  place,  my  dear! 
You  might  eat  your  dinner  off  the  floor),  I  found  the 
whole  family  sitting  at  table ;  and  feeling  that  no  ac- 
count of  them  could  be  half  so  comfortable  to  you  and 
Mr.  Dombey  as  the  sight  of  them  all  together,  I  brought 
them  all  away.  ''  This  gentleman,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
pointing  out  the  apple-faced  man,  "  is  the  father.  Will 
you  have  the  goodness  to  come  a  little  forward,  sir?" 

The  apple-faced  man  having  sheepisbl}-  complied  with 
this  request,  stood  chuckligg  and  grinning  in  a  front  row. 

"  This  is  his  wife,  of  course,"  said  ML«s  Tox,  singling 
out  the  young  woman  with  the  baby.  "  How  do  you 
do,  Polly?" 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Polly. 

By  way  of  bringing  her  out  dexterously,  Miss  Tox 
hatl  made  the  inquiry  as  in  condescension  to  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, whom  she  hadn't  seen  for  a  fortnight  or  so. 

"Tm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "The  other 
young  woman  is  her  unmarried    sister  who  lives  with 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  29 

them,  and  would  take  care  of  her  children.  Her  name's 
Jemiraa.     How  do  you  do,  Jemima?" 

"  I'm  pretty  w<ill,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Je- 
mima. 

"  I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox. 
**  I  hope  you'll  keep  so.  Five  fiiildren.  Youngest  six 
weeks.  The  fine  little  boy  with  the  blister  on  his  nose 
is  the  eldest.  The  blister,  I  believe,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
looking  round  upon  the  ftiraily,  "is  not  constitutional, 
but  accidental  ?  " 

The  apple-faced  man  was  understood  to  growl,  "  Flat- 
iron." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  did 
you  ?  "  — 

"  Flat-iron,"  he  repeated. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "Yes!  quite  true.  I 
forgot.  Tiie  little  creature,  in  his  mother's  absence, 
smelt  a  warm  flat-iron.  You're  quite  right,  sir.  You 
were  going  to  have  the  goodness  to  inform  me,  when 
we  arrived  at  the  door,  that  you  were  by  trade,  a"  — 

"  Stoker,"  said  the  man. 

"A  ciioker!"  said  Miss  Tox,  quite  aghast. 

"Stoker,"  said  the  man.    "  Steam-engine." 

"  Oh-h  !  Yes  !  "  returned  Miss  Tox,  looking  thought' 
fully  jit  him,  and  seeming  still  to  have  but  a  very  im- 
perfect understanding  of  his  meaning. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  it,  sir  ?  " 

•*  Which,  mum  ?  "  said  the  man. 

^*Tliat,"  replied  Miss  Tox.     "Your  trade." 

"  Oh  I  Pretty  well,  mum.  The  ashes  sometimes  gets 
m  here  ;  "  touching  his  chest:  "and' makes  a  man  speak 
gruff,  as  at  the  present  tune.  But  it  is  ashes,  mum. 
net  crustiness." 


so  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

Miss  Tox  seemed  to  be  so  little  enlightened  by  this 
reply,  as  to  find  a  difficulty  in  pursuing  the  subject 
But  Mi-s.  Chick  relieved  her,  by  entering  into  a  close 
private  examination  of  Polly,  her  children,  her  marriage 
certificate,  testimonials,  and  so  forth.  Polly  coming  oat 
unscathed  from  this  or^al,  Mrs.  Chick  withdrew  with 
her  report  to  her  brother's  room,  and  as  an  emphatic 
comment  on  it,  and  corroboration  of  it,  carried  the  two 
rosiest  little  Toodles  with  hei*  Toodle  being  the  family 
name  of  the  apple-faced  family. 

Mr.  Doinbey  had  remained  in  his  own  apartment  since 
the  death  of  his  wife,  absorbed  in  visions  of  the  youth, 
education,  and  destination  of  his  baby  son.  Something 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  cool  heart,  colder  and  heavier 
than  its  ordinary  load ;  but  it  was  more  a  sense  of  the 
child's  loss  than  his  own,  awakening  within  him  an 
almost  angry  sorrow.  That  tlic  life  and  progress  on 
which  he  built  such  hopes,  should  be  endangered  in  the 
outset  by  so  mean  a  want ;  that  Dombey  and  Son  should 
be  tottering  for  a  nurse,  was  a  sore  humiliation.  And 
yet  in  his  pride  and  jealousy,  he  viewed  with  so  much 
bitterness  the  thought  of  being  dependent  for  the  very 
first  step  towards  the  accomphshment  of  his  soul's  de- 
sire, on  a  hired  serving-woman  who  would  be  to  the 
child,  for  the  time,  all  that  even  /as  alliance  could  have 
made  his  own  wife,  that  in  every  new  rejection  of  8 
candidate  he  felt  a  secret  pleasure.  The  time  had 
now  come,  however,  when  he  could  no  longer  be  di- 
vided between  those  two  sets  of  feelings.  The  less  so. 
ns  there  seemed  to  be  no  flaw  in  the  title  of  Polly 
Toodle  after  his  sister  had  set  it  forth,  with  many 
l»mmcndations  on  the  indefatigable^friendship  of  Mis* 
Tox. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  82 

"  These  children  look  healthy,"  said  Mr.  Donibey. 
"But  to  think  of  tiieir  some  day  claiming  a  sort  of 
relationship  to  Paul!  Take  them  away,  Louisa!  Iiet 
me  see  this  woman  and  her  husband." 

Mrs.  Chick  bore  off  the  tender  pair  of  Toodlcs,  and 
pres'intly  returned  with  that  tougher  couple  whose  pres 
ence  hei'  brother  had  commanded. 

*'  My  good  woman,"  said  Mr.  Donibey,  turning  round 
in  his  easy -chair,  as  one  piece,  and  not  as  a  man  with 
limbs  and  joints,  "  1  understand  you  are  poor,  and  w  iah 
to  earn  money  by  nursing  the  little  boy,  my  son,  who 
has  been  so  prematuiely  deprived  of  what  cjin  never 
be  replaced.  I  have  no  objection  to  your  adding  to 
the  comforts  of  your  family  by  that  means.  So  thr  as 
I  can  tell,  you  seem  to  be  a  deserving  object.  But  I 
must  impose  one  or  two  conditions  on  you,  before  you 
enter  my  house  in  that  capacity.  While  you  are  iiere, 
I  must  stipulate  that  you  are  always  known  as  —  say  as 
Riciiards  —  an  ordinary  name  and  convenient.  Have 
you  any  objection  to  be  known  as  Richards  ?  You  had 
better  consult  your  husband."   ^ 

As  the  husband  did  nothing  but  chuckle  and  grin,  and 
ccntinually  draw  his  right  hand  across  his  mouth,  mois- 
tening the  palm,  Mrs.  Toodle  after  nudging  him  twice 
or  thrice  in  vain,  dropped  a  courtesy  and  replied  "  that 
perhaps  if  she  was  to  be  called  out  of  her  name,  it  would 
be  considered  in  the  wages." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey.  "  I  desire  to 
make  it  a  question  of  wages,  altogether.  Now,  Richards, 
if  you  nurse  my  bereaved  child,  I  wish  you  to  remem- 
ber this  always.  You  will  receive  a  liberal  stipend  in 
return  for  the  discharge  of  certain  duties,  in  the  per- 
formance ol  which,  I  wish  you  to  see  as  little  of  youi 


i2  DOMBEY   AXD  SON. 

family  as  possible.  When  those  duties  cease  to  be  re- 
quired and  rendered,  and  the  stipend  ceases  to  be  paid, 
there  is  an  end  of  all  relations  between  us.  Do  you 
understand  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Toodle  seemed  doubtful  about  it;  and  as  to 
Toodle  himself,  he  had  evidently  no  doubt  whatever,  that 
he  was  all  abroad. 

"  You  have  children  of  your  own,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  It  is  not  at  all  in  this  bargain  that  you  need  become 
attached  to  my  child,  or  that  my  child  need  become 
attached  to  you.  I  don't  expect  or  desire  anything  of 
the  kind.  Quite  the  reverse.  When  you  go  away 
from  here,  you  will  have  concluded  what  is  a  mere 
matter  of  bargain  and  sale,  hiring  and  letting  :  .t''d 
will  stay  away.  The  child  will  cease  to  remember 
you  ;  and  you  will  cease,  if  you  please,  to  remember 
».he  child." 

Mrs.  Toodle,  with  a  little  more  color  in  her  cheeks 
than  she  had  had  before,  said  "  she  hoped  she  knew 
her  place." 

"  I  hope  you  do.  Ri»liards.''  ^nid  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I 
have  no  doubt  yuu  knc'-v  it  v.trv  <v«*il.  Indeed  it  is  so 
plain  and  obviou^  it\»*.'  it  could  hanliy  be  otherwise. 
Louisa  my  dear,  aiimige  with  Rictianls  about  money, 
and  let  her  have  it  when  nnd  how  she  pleases.*  Mr. 
what's-your-name,  a  word  with  you,  if  you  please!" 

Thus  arrested  on  the  threshold  as  he  was  following 
bis  wife  out  of  the  room,  Toodle  returned  and  cou- 
fronted  ]\Ir.  Dombey  alone.  He  was  a  strong,  loose, 
round-shouldered,  shuffling,  shaggy  fellovv,  on  whom  hig 
clothes  8at  neglig'intly  :  with  a  good  dfJii  of  hair  and 
whisker,  deepened  in  its  natural  tint,  perhaps,  by  smoke 
and  coal-<lu«t     liard  knotty  hands:   »nd  a  square  fore* 


DOMLEY  AND  SON.  88 

bead,  as   coar.-e   in  grain  as    ihe   bark  of  an   oak.     A 
thorough  contrast  in  all  respects  to  i\Ir.   Doraboy,  who 
was  one  of  those  close-shaved  close-cut  moneyed  gentle- 
men who  are  glossy  and  crisp  like  new  bank-notes,  and    /\ 
who  seem  to  be  artificially  braced  and  tightened  as  by    / 
t!je  stinuilaiing  action  of  golden  shower-baths. 

"  You  have  a  son,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Four  on  'em,  sir.  Four  hims  and  a  her.  All 
alive  !  " 

"  Why,  it's  as  much  as  you  can  afford  to  keep  them  ! " 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  couldn't  hardly  afford  but  one  thing  in  the  world 
{ess,  sir." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  To  lose  'em,  sir." 

"  Can  you  read  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Why,  not  partick'ler,  sir." 

"  Write  ?  " 

"  With  chalk,  sir." 

"With  anything?" 

"  I  could  make  shift  to  chalk  a  little  bil.  1  think,  if 
I  was  put  to  it,"  said  Toodle,  after  some   reflec/^on. 

"  And  yet,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  two  o.  three 
and  thirty,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Thereabouts,  I  suppose,  sir,"  answered  Toodle,  after 
aiore  reflection. 

*'  Then  why  don't  you  learn  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

•'  So  I'm  a-going  to,  sir.  One  of  my  little  boys  is  a- 
eomg  to  learn  me,  when  he's  old  enough,  and  been  to 
irhool  himself." 

"  Well ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  looking  at  him  at- 
tentively  and  witli  no  great  favor,  as  he  stood  gazing 
"^und  the  room  (principally  round  the  ceiling)  and  stil/ 
vou  I  3 


B4  DOMBEY    AND   SON. 

drawing  bis  hand  across  and  across  his  mouth.     ''  foa 
beard  what  I  said  to  your  wife  just  now  ?  " 

"  Polly  heerd  it,"  said  Toodle,  jerking  his  hat  over  his 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  with  an  air  of  per- 
fect confidence  in  his  better  half.     "  It's  all  right.'* 

**  As  you  appear  to  leave  everything  to  her,"  said  Mr 
Dorabey,  frustrated  in  bis  intention  of  impressing  Ii9 
views  still  more  distinctly  on  the  husband,  as  the  stronger 
character,  "  I  suppose  it  is  of  no  use  ray  saying  anything 
to  you." 

«  Not  a  bit,"  said  Toodle.  "  Polly  heerd  it.  Sh^i 
awake,  sir." 

"  I  won't  detain  you  any  longer  then,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey  disappointed.  "  Where  have  you  worked  all 
your  life  ?" 

"  Mostly  underground,  sir,  till  I  got  married.  I  come 
to  the  level  then.  I'm  a-going  on  one  of  these  here  rail- 
roads when  they  comes  into  full  play." 

As  the  last  straw  breaks  the  laden  camel's  back,  this 
piece  of  underground  information  crushed  the  sinking 
spirits  of  Mr.  Dombey.  He  motioned  his  child's  foster- 
father  to  the  door,  who  departed  by  no  means  unwill- 
ingly :  and  then  turning  the  key,  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  in  solitary  wretchedness.  For  all  his  starched 
-impenetrable  dignity  and  composure,  he  wiped  blinding 
tears  from  his  eyes  as  he  did  so :  and  often  said,  with  an 
emotion  of  which  he  would  not,  foi  the  world,  have  Lad 
R  witness,  "  Poor  little  fellow  !  " 

It  may  have  been  characteristic  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
pride  that  he  pitied  himself  through  the  child.  Not 
poor  nie.  Not  poor  widower,  confiding  by  constraint 
in  the  wife  of  an  ignorant  Hind  who  has  been  work- 
tiq  "  mostly  underground  "  all  his  bfe,  an  1  yet  %\  whose 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  85 

door  Death  has  never  knocked,  and  at  whose  poor  table 
four  sons  daily  sit  —  but  poor  little  fellow ! 

Those  words  being  on  his  lips,  it  occurred  to  him  — 
and  it  is  au  instance  of  the  strong  attraction  with  which 
his  hopes  and  fears  and  all  his  thoughts  were  tending  to 
one  centre  —  that  a  great  temptation  was  being  placed  in 
"^this  woman's  way.  Her  infant  was  a  boy  too.  Now, 
<eould  it  be  possible  for  her  to  change  them  ? 

Though  he  was  soon  satisfied  that  he  had  dismissed 
the  idea  as  romantic  and  unlikely  —  though  possible, 
there  was  no  denying — he  could  not  help  pursuing  it 
so  far  as  to  entertain  within  himself  a  picture  of  what 
his  condition  would  be,  if  he  should  discover  such  an  im- 
posture when  he  was  grown  old.  Whether  a  man  so 
situated,  would  be  able  to  pluck  away  the  result  of  so 
many  years  of  usage,  confidence,  and  belief,  from  the  im- 
postor, and  endow  a  stranger  with  it? 

As  his  unusual  emotion  subsided,  these  misgivings 
gradually  melted  away,  though  so  much  of  their  shadow 
remained  behind,  that  he  was  constant  in  his  resolution 
to  look  closely  after  Richards  himself,  without  appearing 
to  do  so.  Being  now  in  an  easier  frame  of  mind,  he  re- 
garded the  woman's  station  as  rather  an  advantageous 
circumstance  than  otherwise,  by  placing,  in  itself,  a 
broad  distance  between  her  and  the  child,  and  render- 
ing their  separation  easy  and  natural. 

Meanwhile  terms  were  ratified  and  agreed  upon  be- 
tween Mrs.  Chick  and  Richards,  with  the  assistance  of 
Miss  Tox  ;  and  Richards  being  with  much  ceremony  in- 
vested with  the  Dombey  baby,  as  if  it  were  an  Order, 
cesigned  her  own,  with  many  tears  and  kisses  to  Jemima. 
Glasses  of  wine  were  then  produced,  to  sustain  tTie 
drooping  spirits  of  the  family. 


B6  UOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  You'll  take  a  glass  yourself,  sir,  won't  you  ? "  said 
Miss  Tox.  as  Toodle  appeared. 

**  Tiiankee,  mum,"  said  Toodle,  "since  you  are  sup- 
pressing." 

"  And  you're  very  glad  to  leave  your  dear  good  wife 
in  such  a  comfortable  home,  a'n't  you,  sir?"  said  Miss 
Tox,  nodding  and  winking  at  him  stealthily. 

"  No,  mum,"  said  Toodle.  "  Here's  wishing  of  her 
back  agin." 

Polly  cried  more  than  ever  at  this.  So  INIi'S.  Chick, 
who  had  her  matronly  apprehensions  that  this  indulgence 
In  grief  might  be  prejudicial  to  the  little  Dombey  ("  acid, 
indeed,"  she  whispered  Miss  Tox),  hastened  to  the  rescue. 

"Your  little  ciiild  will  thrive  charmingly  with  your  sis- 
ter Jemima,  Richards,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "  and  you  have 
only  to  make  an  effort  —  this  is  a  world  of  effort,  you 
know,  Richards  —  to  be  very  happy  indeed.  You  have 
been  already  measured  for  your  mourning,  haven't  you, 
Riciiards  ?  " 

"  Ye — es,  ma'am,"  sobbed  Polly. 

"And  it'll  fit  beautifully,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
"  for  the  same  young  person  has  made  me  many  dresses." 
The  very  best  materials,  too  !  " 

"■  Lor,  you'll  be  so  smart,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  that  your 
husband  won't  know  you;  will  you,  sir?" 

"I  should  know  her,"  said  Toodle,  grufHy,  " anylwws 
and  anywheres." 

Toodle  was  evidently  not  to  be  bought  over. 

"As  to  living,  Richards,  you  know,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Chick,  "  why  the  very  best  of  everything  will  be  at  ycur 
disposal.  You  will  order  your  little  dinner  every  day ; 
tnd  anything  you  take  a  fancy  to,  I'm  sure  will  be  as 
feadily  provided  as  if  you  were  a  lady." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  ! "  said  Miss  Tox,  keeping  up  the 
ball  with  great  sympathy.  "And  as  to  porter!  —  quite 
unlimited,  will  it  not,  Louisa?" 

"Oh,  certainly!"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  same 
toue.  "  With  a  little  abstinence,  you  know,  ray  dear,  in 
xiint  of  vegetables." 

"  And  pickles,  perhaps,"  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  With  such  exceptions,"  said  Louisa,  "  she'll  consult 
her  choice  entirely,  and  be  under  no  restraint  at  all,  my 
bve." 

"  And  then,  of  course,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"  however  fond  she  is  of  her  own  dear  little  child  — 
and  I'm  sure,  Louisa,  you  don't  blame  her  for  being  fond 
of  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  benignantly. 

"  Still,"  re-^umed  Miss  Tox,  "she  naturally  must  be  in- 
terested in  her  young  charge,  and  must  consider  it  a 
privilege  to  see  a  little  cherub  closely  connected  with 
the  superior  classes,  gradually  unfoidmg  itself  from  day 
to  day  at  one  common  fountain.     Is  it  not  so,  Louisa?" 

"Most  undoubtedly!"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "You  see, 
my  love,  she's  already  quite  contented  and  comfortable, 
and  means  to  say  good-by  to  her  sister  Jemima  and  her 
little  pets,  and  her  good  honest  husband,  with  a  light 
heart  and  a  smile;  don't  she,  my  dear!" 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  cried  Miss  Tox,     "  To  be  sure  she  does  I " 

Notwitiistanding  which,  however,  poor  Polly  embraced 
tnem  all  round  in  great  distress,  and  fmally  ran  away  to 
avoid  any  more  particular  leave-taking  between  herself 
and  the  children.  But  the  stratagem  hardly  succeeded 
as  well  as  it  deserved  ;  for  the  smallest  boy  but  one 
iivining  her  inient,  immediately  began  swarming  up- 
«cairs  after  her  —  ii    that  word   of  doubll'ul   etymology 


KC  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

oe  admissible  —  on  liis  arras  and  legs  ;  while  the  eldest 
(known  in  tlie  family  by  the  name  of  Biler,  in  remem- 
brance of  the  steam-engine)  beat  a  demoniacal  tattoo 
with  his  boots,  expressive  of  grief;  in  which  he  was 
joined  by  the  rest  of  the  family. 

A  quantity  of  oranges  and  halfpence,  thrust  indis- 
jriminately  on  each  young  Toodle,  checked  the  first 
violence  of  their  regret,  and  the  family  were  speedily 
transported  to  their  own  home,  by  means  of  the  hack- 
ney-coach kept  in  waiting  for  that  purpose.  The  chil- 
dren, under  the  guardianship  of  Jemima,  blocked  up  the 
window,  and  dropped  out  oranges  and  halfpence  all  (he 
way  along.  Mr.  Toodle  himself  preferred  to  ride  b^ 
hind  among  the  spikes,  as  being  the  mode  of  convey* 
ance  to  which  he  was  best  accustomed. 


D0MI5EY  AND  SOX.  8b 


CHAPTER   riT. 

IX    WHICH    MR.     DOMHKY,    AS    A    MAX    AXP     A     FATHER,   ui 
SEEN   AT   THE   HKAD    OF    THE    HOME-DKPAKTMKNT. 

The  funeral  of  the  deceased  lady  having  been  "  pei  • 
formed  "  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  undertaker,  aa 
well  as  of  the  neighborhood  at  large,  which  is  generally 
disposed  to  be  captious  on  such  a  point,  and  is  prone  to 
take  offence  at  any  omissions  or  short-comings  in  the 
ceremonies,  the  various  members  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
household  subsided  into  their  several  places  in  the  do- 
mestic system.  That  small  world,  like  the  great  one 
out  of  doors,  had  the  capacity  of  easily  forgetting  its 
dead ;  and  when  the  cook  had  said  she  was  a  quiet-tem- 
pered lady,  and  the  house-keeper  had  said  it  was  the 
common  lot,  and  the  butler  had  said  who'd  have  thought 
it,  and  the  house-maid  had  said  she  couldn't  hardly  believe 
it,  and  the  footman  had  said  it  seemed  exactly  like  a 
dream,  they  had  quite  worn  the  subject  out,  and  began 
to  think  their  mourning  was  wearing  rusty  too. 

On  Richards,  who  was  established  up-stairs  in  a  state 
of  honorable  captivity,  the  dawn  of  her  new  life  seemed 
to  break  cold  and  gray.  Mr.  Dombey's  house  was  a 
large  one,  on  the  shady  side  of  a  tall,  dark,  dreadfully 
genteel  street  in  the  region  between  Portland-place  and 
Bryanstcne-square.  It  was  a  corner  house,  with  great 
wide  aieas  containing  cellars  frowned  upon  by  barred 


40  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

windows,  and  leered  at  by  ci-ooked-eyed  doors  leading  to 
dustbins.  It  was  a  house  of  dismal  state,  with  a  circu- 
lar back  to  it,  containing  a  whole  suite  of  drawing-rooms 
looking  upon  a  gravelled  yard,  where  two  gaunt  trees, 
with  blackened  trunks  and  branches,  rattled  rather  than 
rustled,  their  leaves  were  so  smoke-dried.  The  summer 
sun  was  never  on  the  street,  but  in  the  morning  about 
l>reakfast-time,  when  it  came  with  the  water-wirts  and 
the  old  clothes-men,  and  the  people  with  geraniums,  and 
the  umbrella-mender,  and  the  man  who  trilled  the  little 
bell  of  the  Dutch  clock  as  he  went  along.  It  was  soon 
gone  again  to  return  no  more  that  day;  and  the  bands 
of  music  and  the  straggling  Punch's  shows  going  after 
it,  left  it  a  prey  to  the  most  dismal  of  organs  and  white 
mice ;  with  now  and  then  a  porcui)ine,  to  vary  the  en- 
tertainments ;  until  the,  butlers  whose  families  were  din- 
ing out,  began  to  stand  at  the  house-doors  in  the  twilight, 
and  tin;  lamp-lighter  made  his  nightly  failure  in  attempt- 
ing to  brighten  up  the  street  with  gas. 

It  was  as  blank  a  house  inside  as  outside^  When  the 
funeral  was  over,  Air.  Dorabey  ordered  the  furniture  to 
be  covered  up  —  perhaps  to  preserve  it  for  the  sou  with 
whom  his  plans  were  all  associated  —  and  the  rooms  to 
be  ungarnished,  saving  such  as  he  retained  for  himi^elf 
on  the  ground  floor.  Accordingly,  mysterious  shapeti 
were  made  of  tables  and  chairs,  heaped  together  in  the 
middle  of  rooms,  and  covered  over  with  great  winding- 
sheets.  BsU-handles,  window-blinds,  and  looking-glasses, 
l)eiug  papered  up  in  journals,  daily  and  weekly,  obtruded 
fragmentary  accounts  of  deaths  and  dreadful  murdei-s 
Every  chandelier  or  lustre,  muHled  in  holland,  looked 
like  a  monstrous  tear  de[)ending  from  the  ceiling's  eye. 
Odors,  as  from  vaults  and  damp  places,  cjime  out  of  the 


DOMBEl    AND  SON.  41 

jhimneys.  The  dead  and  buried  lady  was  awful  in  a 
picture-frame  of  ghastly  bandages.  Kveyy  gust  of  wind 
that  rose,  brought  eddying  round  the  corner  from  the 
neighboring  mews,  some  fragments  of  the  straw  that 
had  been  strewn  before  the  house  when  she  was  ill, 
mildewed  remains  of  which  were  still  cleaving  to  the 
neighborhood ;  and  these,  being  always  drawn  by  some 
invisible  attraction  to  the  threshold  of  the  dirty  house 
to  let  immediately  opposite,  addressed  a  dismal  eloquence 
to  Mr.  Dombey's  windows. 

The  apartments  which  Mr.  Dombey  reserved  for  his 
own  inhabiting,  were  attainable  from  the  hall,  and  con- 
sisted of  a  sitting-room ;  a  library,  which  was  in  fact  a 
dressing-room,  so  that  the  smell  of  hot-pressed  paper, 
vellum,  morocco,  and  Russia  leather,  contended  in  it 
with  the  smell  of  divers  pairs  of  boots ;  and  a  kind  of 
conservatory  or  little  glass  breakfast-room  beyond,  com 
manding  a  prospect  of  the  trees  before  mentioned,  and, 
generally  speaking,  of  a  few  prowling  cats.  These  three 
rooms  opened  upon  one  anotlier.  In  the  morning,  when 
Mr.  Dombey  was  at  his  breakfast  in  one  or  other  of  the 
two  first-mentioned  of  them,  as  well  as  in  the  afternoon 
when  he  came  home  to  dinner,  a  bell  was  rung  for 
Richards  to  repair  to  this  glav<s  chamber,  and  there  walk 
to  and  fro  with  her  young  chai-ge.  From  the  glimpses 
she  caught  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  these  times,  sitting  in  the 
dark  distance,  looking  out  towards  the  infant  from  among 
the  dark  heavy  furniture  —  the  house  had  been  inhab- 
ited for  years  by  his  father,  and  in  many  of  its  appoint- 
ments was  old-fashioned  and  grim  —  she  began  to  enter- 
tain ideas  of  him  in  his  solitary  state,  as  if  he  were  a 
lone  prisoner  in  a  cell,  or  a  strange  apparition  that  wa& 
not  «o  l)*i  accosted  or  understood. 


42  DOSIBET  ijn>  SOW. 

Little  Paul  Dombey's  foster-mother  had  led  this  life 
herself  and  had  carried  little  Paul  through  it  for  some 
weeks ;  and  had  returned  up-stairs  one  day  from  a  mel- 
ancholy saunter  through  the  dreary  rooms  of  state  (she 
never  went  out  without  Mrs.  Chick,  who  called  on  fine 
mornings,  usually  accompanied  by  Miss  Tox,  to  take  her 
and  Baby  for  an  airing  —  or  in  other  words,  to  march 
them  gravely  up  and  down  the  pavement ;  like  a  walk- 
ing funeral)  ;  when,  as  she  was  sitting  in  her  own  room, 
the  door  was  tilowly  and  quietly  opened,  and  a  dark-eyed 
little  girl  looked  in. 

'•  It's  Miss  Florence  come  home  from  her  aunt's,  no 
doubt,"  thought  Richards,  who  had  never  seen  the  child 
before.     "  Hope  I  see  you  well,  miss." 

"  Is  that  my  brother  ?  "  asked  the  child,  pointing  to 
the  baby. 

"  Yes,  my  pretty,"  answered  Richards.  "  Come  and 
kiss  him." 

But  the  child,  instead  of  advancing,  looked  her  ear- 
nestly in  the  face,  and  said :  — 

"  What  have  you  done  Avith  my  Mama  ? " 

*'Lord  bless  the  little  creeterl"  cried  Richards,  "what 
9  sad  question  !     I  done  ?     Nothing,  miss." 

"  What  have  they  done  with  my  Mama  ?  "  inquired  the 
child. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  melting  thing  in  all  my  life ! "  said 
Richards,  who  naturally  substituted  for  this  child  one 
of  her  own,  inquiring  for  herself  in  like  circumstances. 
"  Come  nearer  here,  my  dear  miss !  Don't  be  afraid  of 
me." 

**  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  said  the  child,  drawing 
nearer.  "  But  I  want  to  know  what  they  have  done 
*«th  my  Mama." 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  43 

"  My  darling,"  said  Richards,  "  you  wear  that  pretty 
black  frock  in  remembrance  of  your  Mama." 

**  I  can  remember  my  Mama,"  returned  the  child,  with 
tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  "  in  any  frock.'' 

"  But  people  put  on  black,  to  remember  people  when 
they're  gone." 

"  Where  gorte  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

**  Come  and  sit  down  by  me,"  said  Richards,  "  and  FL 
tell  you  a  story." 

With  a  quick  perception  that  it  was  intended  to  relate 
to  what  she  had  asked,  little  Florence  laid  aside  the 
bonnet  she  had  held  in  her  hand  until  now,  aod  sat 
down  on  a  stool  at  the  nurse's  feet,  looking  up  into  her 
face. 

'*Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Richaixls,  "there  was  a  lady 
—  a  very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly  loved 
her." 

"A  very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly  loved 
her,"  repeated  the  child. 

"  Who,  when  God  thought  it  right  that  it  should  be  so, 
was  taken  ill  and  died." 

The  child  shuddered. 

"  Died,  never  to  be  seen  again  by  any  one  on  eartli,  and 
was  buried  in  the  ground  where  the  trees  grow." 

"  The  cold  ground,"  said  the  child  shuddering  again- 

**  No  !  The  warm  ground,"  returned  Polly,  seizing  her 
advantage,  "  where  the  ugly  little  seeds  turn  into  beauti 
ful  flowers,  and  into  grass,  and  corn,  and  I  don't  know 
what  all  besides.  Where  good  people  turn  into  bright 
wigels,  and  fly  away  to  Heaven  !  " 

The  child  who  had  drooped  her  head,  raised  it  again^ 
ind  sat  looking  at  her  intently. 

"  So ;  let   me  see "    said  Polly,  not   a   Uttle  flurried 


44  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

between  this  earnest  scrutiny,  her  desire  to  comfort  the 
child,  her  sudden  success,  and  her  very  slight  confidence 
in  her  own  powers.  "  So,  when  this  lady  died,  where- 
ever  they  took  her,  or  wherever  they  put  her,  she  went 
to  God  !  and  she  prayed  to  Him,  this  lady  did,"  said 
Polly,  affecting  herself  beyond  measure ;  being  heartily 
in  earnest,  "  to  teach  her  little  daughter  to  be  sure  of 
that  in  her  heai't :  and  to  know  that  she  was  happy  there 
and  loved  her  still :  and  to  hope  and  try  —  oh  all  her 
life  —  to  meet  her  there  one  day,  never,  never,  never  to 
part  any  more." 

"  It  was  my  Mama  !  "  exclaimed  the  child,  springing 
up,  and  clasping  her  round  the  neck. 

"  And  the  child's  heart,"  said  Polly,  drawing  her  to 
her  breast :  "  tl)e  little  daughter's  heart  was  so  full  of  the 
truth  of  this,  that  oven  when  she  heard  it  from  a  strange 
nurse  that  couldn't  tell  it  right,  but  was  a  poor  mother 
herself  and  that  was  all,  she  found  a  comfort  in  it  — 
didn't  feel  so  lonely  —  sobbed  and  cried  upon  her  bosom 
—  took  kindly  to  the  baby  lying  in  her  lap  —  and  — 
there,  there,  there !  "  said  Polly  smoothing  the  child's 
curls  and  dropping  tears  upon  them.  "  There,  poor 
dear!" 

"  Oh  well,  Miss  Floy !  And  won't  your  Pa  be  angry 
neither ! "  cried  a  quick  voice  at  the  door,  proceeding 
frorc.  a  short,  brown,  womanly  girl  of  fourteen,  with  a 
little  snub  nose  and  black  eyes  like  jet  beads.  "When 
it  was  'tickerlerly  given  out  that  you  wasn't  to  go  and 
worrit  the  wet  nurse." 

"  She  don't  worry  me,"  was  the  surprised  rejoinder  of 
Polly.     "  I  am  very  fond  of  children." 

"  Oh  !  but  begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Richards,  that 
bn't  matter  you  know,"  returned  the  black-eyed  girl. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  45 

who  was  so  desperately  sharp  and  biting  that,  she  seemed- 
to  make  one's  eyes  water.  "  1  may  be  very  fond  of 
penny  winkles,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  it  don't  follow  that  Vm 
to  have  'em  for  tea." 

"  Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh  thankee,  Mrs.  iiicliards,  don't  it!"  rotinicd  the 
sharp  girl.  "  Keinembering,  however,  if  you  11  be  so 
gtxxl,  that  Miss  Floy's  under  my  charge,  and  Master 
Paul's  under  your'n." 

"  But  still  we  needn't  quarrel,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  no,  Mrs.  Richards,"  rejoined  SpitHre.  "  Not  at 
all,  I  don't  wish  it,  we  needn't  stand  upon  that  footing, 
Miss  Floy  being  a  permanency.  Master  Paul  a  tem- 
porary." Spitfire  made  use  of  none  but  comma  pauses  ; 
shooting  out  whatever  she  had  to  say  in  one  sentence, 
and  in  one  breath,  if  possible. 

''  Miss  Florence  has  just  come  home,  hasn't  she  ?  " 
a^ked  Polly. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  just  come  home,  and  here,  Miss 
Floy,  before  you've  been  in  the  house  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  you  go  a-smearing  your  wet  face  against  the  ex- 
pensive mourning  that  Mrs.  Richards  is  a-wearing  for 
your  Ma ! "  With  this  remonstrance,  young  Spitfire, 
whose  real  name  was  Susan  Nipper,  detached  the  child 
fxx)ra  her  new  friend  by  a  wrench  —  as  if  she  were  a 
tooth.  But  she  seemed  to  do  it,  more  in  the  excessively 
sharp  exercise  of  her  official  functions,  than  with  any 
deliberate  unkindness. 

•'  She'll  be  quite  happy,  now  she  has  come  home 
gain,"  said  Polly,  nodiling  to  her  with  an  encouraging 
<mile  upon  her  wholesome  face,  "and  will  be  so  pleased 
to  see  her  dear  Papa  to-night." 

"  Lork,  Mrs.  Richards  ! "  cried  Miss  Nipper,  taking 


46  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

np  her  words  with  a  jerk.  "  Don't.  See  her  dear  Papa 
indeed !     I  should  like  to  see  her  do  it !  " 

«  Won't  she  then  ?  "  asked  Polly. 

"  Lork,  Mrs.  Richards,  no,  her  Pa's  a  deal  too  wrapped 
ap  in  somebody  else,  and  before  there  was  a  somebody 
else  to  be  wrapped  up  in  she  never  was  a  favorite,  girla 
are  thrown  away  in  this  house,  Mrs.  Richards,  /  assure 
you." 

The  child  looked  quickly  from  one  nurse  to  the  other, 
as  if  she  understood  and  felt  what  was  said. 

"  You  surprise  me  !  "  cried  Polly.  "  Hasn't  Mr. 
Dorabey  seen  her  since  "  — 

"  No,'*  interrupted  Susan  Nipper.  "  Not  once  since, 
and  he  hadn't  hardly  set  his  eyes  upon  her  before  that 
for  months  and  months,  and  I  don't  think  he'd  have 
known  her  for  his  own  child  if  he  had  met  her  in  the 
streets,  or  would  know  her  for  his  own  child  if  he  was  to 
meet  her  in  the  streets  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Richards,  as  to 
me"  said  Spitfire,  with  a  giggle,  "  I  doubt  if  he's  aweer 
of  my  existence." 

"  Pretty  dear ! "  said  Richards ;  meaning,  not  Miss 
Nipper,  but  the  little  Florence. 

"  Oh  !  there's  a  Tartar  within  a  hundred  miles  of 
where  we're  now  in  conversation,  I  can  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Richards,  present  company  always  excepted  too,"  said 
Susan  Nipper :  "  wish  you  good-morning,  Mrs.  Richards, 
now  Miss  Floy,  you  come  along  with  me,  and  don't  go 
hanging  back  like  a  naughty  wicked  child  that  judgments 
is  no  example  to,  don't." 

In  spite  of  being  thus  adjured,  and  in  spite  also  of 
some  hauling  on  the  part  of  Susan  Nipper,  tending  tow- 
ards the  dislocation  of  her  right  shoulder,  little  Florence 
'>roke  away,  and  kissed  l\er  new  friend,  £.ffectionatelj. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  47 

«Good-by!"  said  the  child.  "God  bless  you!  1 
ihall  come  to  see  you  again  soon,  and  you'll  come  to  see 
me?     Susan  will  let  us.     Won't  you,  Susan?" 

Spitfire  seemed  to  be  in  the  main  a  good-natured  little 
lK>dy,  although  a  disciple  of  that  school  of  trainers  of  the 
young  idea  which  holds  that  childhood,  like  money,  mus 
b<i  shaken  and  rattled  and  jostled  about  a  good  deal  to 
keep  it  bright.  For,  being  thus  appealed  to  with  some 
endearing  gestures  and  caresses,  she  folded  her  small 
arms  and  shook  her  head,  and  conveyed  a  relenting  ex- 
pression into  her  very-wide-open  black  eyes. 

"  It  a'n't  right  of  you  to  ask  it.  Miss  Floy,  for  yoa 
know  I  can't  refuse  you,  but  Mrs.  Richards  and  me 
will  see  what  can  be  done,  if  Mrs.  Richards  likes,  1 
may  wish,  you  see,  to  take  a  voyage  to  Chaney,  Mrs. 
Richards,  but  I  mayn't  know  how  to  leave  the  London 
Docks." 

Richards  assented  to  the  proposition. 

*'  This  house  a'n't  so  exactly  ringing  with  merry-mak 
ing,"  said  Miss  Nipper,  "  that  one  need  be  lonelier  than 
one  must  be.     Your  Toxes  and  your  Chickses  may  draw 
out  my  two  front  double  teeth,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  that's 
no  reason  why  I  need  offer  'era  the  whole  set." 

This  proposition  was  also  assented  to  by  Richards,  as 
an  obvious  one. 

"  So  I'm  agreeable,  I'm  sure,"  said  Susan  Nipper, 
"  to  live  friendly,  Mrs.  Richards,  while  Master  Paul 
continues  a  permanency,  if  the  means  can  be  planned 
out  without  going  openly  against  orders,  but  goodness 
gracious  me.  Miss  Floy,  you  haven't  got  your  things 
off  yet,  you  naughty  child,  you  haven't,  come  along ! " 

With  these  words,  Susan  Nipper,  in  a  transport  of 
3oercion,  made  a  charge  at  her  young  ward,  and  swept 
\er  out  of  the  room. 


18  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  child,  in  her  grief  and  neglect,  was  so  gentle,  so 
quiet,  and  uncomplaining ;  was  possessed  of  so  much 
BflTection,  that  no  one  seemed  to  care  to  have,  and  so 
much  sorrowful  intelligence  that  no  one  seemed  to  mind 
or  think  about  the  wounding  of;  that  Polly's  heart  was 
iore  when  she  was  left  alone  again.  In  the  simple  pas- 
sage that  had  taken  place  between  herself  and  the 
motliei'less  little  girl,  her  own  moilierly  heart  had  been 
touched,  no  less  than  the  child's ;  and  she  felt,  as  Ibe 
child  did,  that  there  was  something  of  confidence  and 
interest  between  them  from  that  moment. 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Toodle's  great  reliance  on  Polly, 
she  was  perhaps  in  point  of  artificial  accomplishments 
very  little  his  superior.  But  she  was  a  good  plain 
sample  of  a  nature  that  is  ever,  in  the  m'ass,  better, 
truer,  higher,  nobler,  quicker  to  feel,  and  mucli  more 
constant  to  retain,  all  tenderness  and  pity,  self-denial 
and  devotion,  than  the  nature  of  men.  And,  perha|)s, 
unlearned  as  she  was,  she  could  have  brought  a  dawn- 
ing knowledge  home  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  that  early  day, 
which  would  not  then  have  struck  hiin  in  the  end  like 
lightning. 

But  this  is  from  the  purpose.  Polly  only  thought,  at 
that  time,  of  improving  on  her  successful  propitiation  of 
Miss  Nipper,  and  devising  some  means  of  having  little 
Florence  beside  her,  lawfully,  and  without  rebellion.  An 
opening  happened  to  present  itself  that  very  night. 

She  had  been  rung  down  into  the  glass  room  as  usual, 
Bnd  had  walked  about  and  about  it  a  long  time,  with  the 
baby  in  her  arm<,  when,  to  her  great  surprise  and  dis- 
may, Mr.  Dombey  came  out  suddenly,  and  stopptxi 
before  her. 

"  Goo'l-cvening,  Richards." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  49 

Just  the  same  austere,  stifil  gentleman,  as  he  had  ap- 
peared lo  her  on  that  first  day.  Such  a  hard-looking 
genlleman,  that  she  involuntarily  dropped  her  eyes  and 
her  courtesy  at  the  same  time. 

"  How  is  Master  Paul,  Richards?" 

''  Quite  thriving,  sir,  and  well." 

"  He  looks  so,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  glancing  with  grea 
interest  at  the  liiiy  face  she  uncovered  for  his  observa- 
tion, and  yet  aifecling  to  be  half  careless  of  it.  "  They 
give  you  everything  you  want,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  thank  you,  sir." 

She  suddenly  appended  such  an  obvious  hesitation  to 
this  reply,  however,  that  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  turned 
away,  stopped,  and  turned  round  again,  inquiringly. 

"  I  believe  nothing  is  so  good  for  making  children 
lively  and  cheerful,  sir,  as  seeing  other  children  play- 
ing about  'em,"  observed   Polly,  taking  courage. 

*'  I  think  1  mentioned  to  you,  llicliards,  when  you 
came  liere,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  with  a  frown,  "that  I 
wished  you  to  see  as  little  of  your  family  as  possible. 
You  can  continue  your  walk  if  you  please." 

With  that,  he  disappeared  into  his  inner  room  ;  and 
Polly  had  the  satislaction  of  fieeling  that  he  had  thorougii- 
ly  misunderstood  her  object,  and  that  she  had  fallen  into 
disgrace  without  the  It-ast  advancement  of  her  purpose. 

Next  night,  she  found  hira  walking  about  the  conser- 
vatory when  she  came  down.  As  she  stopped  at  tho 
•Juor,  checked^  by  this  unusual  sight,  and  uncertain 
whether  to  advance  or  retreat,  he  called  her  in. 

"If  you  really  think  that  sort  of  society  is  good  foi 
Ihe  child,"  he  said  sharply,  as  if  there  had  beon  no  inter 
?al  since  she  proposed  it,  "  where's  ISIiss  Florence?" 

"  Nothing  could  be  better  ihan  Miss   Florence,  sir, 

vol-  L  4 


60  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

said  Polly  eagerly,  "but^  understood  from  her  Uttle 
maid  that  they  were  not  to  "  — 

Mr.  Dombey  rang  the  bell,  and  walked  till  it  WM 
answered. 

"  Tell  them  always  to  let  Miss  Florence  be  with  Rich- 
ards when  she  chooses,  and  go  out  with  her,  and  so  forth 
Tell  them  to  let  tlie  children  be  together,  when  Richards 
wishes  it." 

The  iron  was  now  hot,  and  Richards  striking  on  it 
boldly  —  it  was  a  good  cause  and  she  was  bold  in  it, 
though  instinctively  afraid  of  Mr.  Dombey  —  requested 
that  Miss  Florence  might  be  sent  down  then  and  there, 
to  make  friends  with  her  little  brother. 

She  feigned  to  be  dandling  the  child  as  the  servant 
retired  on  this  errand,  but  she  thought  she  saw  that  Mr. 
Dombey's  color  changed  ;  that  the  expression  of  his  face 
quite  altered  ;  that  he  turned  hurriedly,  as  if  to  gainsay 
what  he  had  said,  or  she  had  said,  or  both,  and  was  only 
deterred  by  very  shame. 

And  she  was  right.  The  last  time  he  had  seen  his 
sliglited  child,  there  had  been  that  in  the  sad  embrace 
between  her  and  her  dying  mother,  which  was  at  once 
a  revelation  and  a  reproach  to  him.  Let  him  be  ab- 
sorbed as  he  would  in  the  Son  on  whom  he  built  such 
high  hopes,  he  could  not  forget  that  closing  scene.  He 
could  not  forget  that  he  had  had  no  part  in  it.  That,  at 
(he  bottom  of  its  clear  depths  of  tenderness  and  truth,  laj 
those  two  figures  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  while  he 
stood  on  the  bank  above  them,  looking  down  a  mere 
spectator  —  not  a  sharer  with  them  —  quite  shut  out. 

Unable  to  exclude  these  things  from  his  remembrance, 
or  to  keep  his  mind  free  from  such  imperfect  shapes  of 
Uie  meaning  with  Avhich  they  were  fraught,  as  were  able 


DOMBEY  ANT)  SON".  dl 

to  make  themselves  visible  to  him  through  the  mist  of 
his  pride,  his  previous  feelings  of  indifference  towards 
little  Plorence  changed  into  an  uneasiness  of  an  extraor- 
dinary kind.  He  almost /elt  as  if  she  watched  and  dii- 
trusted  him.  As  if  she  held  the  clew  to  something  se- 
cret in  his  breast,  of  the  nature  of  which  he  was  hardij 
informed  himself.  As  if  she  had  an  innate  knowledge  of 
one  jarring  and  discordant  sti'ing  within  him,  and  her 
very  breath  could  sound  it. 

His  feeling  about  the  child  had  been  negative  from 
her  birth.  He  had  never  conceived  an  aversion  to  her; 
it  had  not  been  worth  his  while  or  in  his  humor.  She 
had  never  been  a  positively  disagreeable  object  to  Wm. 
But  now  he  was  ill  at  ease  about  her.  She  troubled  his 
peace.  He  would  have  preferred  to  put  her  idea  aside 
altogether,  if  he  had  known  how.  Perhaps  —  who  shall 
decide  on  such  mysteries  ?  —  he  was  afraid  that  he 
might  come  to  hate  her. 

When  little  Florence  timidly  presented  herself,  Mr. 
Dombey  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  down,  and  looked 
towards  her.  Had  he  looked  with  greater  interest  and 
with  a  father's  eye,  he  might  have  read  in  her  keen 
glance  the  impulses  and  fears  that  made  her  waver  ;  the 
passionate  desire  to  run  clinging  to  him,  crying,  as  she 
hid  her  face  in  his  embrace,  "  Oh,  father,  try  to  love  me  J 
there's  no  one  else ! "  the  dread  of  a  repulse ;  the  fear 
of  being  too  bold,  and  of  offending  him ;  the  pitiable 
need  in  which  she  stood  of  some  assurance  and  encour 
ftgement ;  and  how  her  overcharged  young  heart  was 
vandering  to  find  some  natural  resting-place,  for  its  sor- 
-ow  and  affection. 

But  he  saw  nothing  of  this.  He  saw  her  pause  irres- 
slutely  at  the  door  and  look  towards  him ;  and  he  saw 
DO  more. 


52  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  "  corue  in :  what  is  the  child 
afraid  of  ?  " 

She  came  in ;  and  after  glancing  round  her  for  8 
moment  with  an  uncertain  air,  stood  pressing  her  small 
hands  hard  together,  close  within  the  duoi. 

'*  Come  here,  Florence,"  said  her  father,  coldly.  "  Ik) 
you  kiiow  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

The  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them 
quickly  to  his  face,  were  frozen  by  the  expression  it 
wore.  She  looked  down  again,  and  put  out  her  trem- 
bling hand. 

Mr.  Dombey  took  it  loosely  in  his  own,  and  stood 
looking  down  upon  her  for  a  moment  as  if  he  knew  as 
little  as  the  child,  what  to  say  or  do. 

"  Tliere  !  lie  a  good  girl,"  he  saiil,  patting  her  on  the 
head,  and  regarding  her  as  it  were  by  stealth  with  a 
disturbed  and  doubtful  look.     "  Go  to  Ricliards  !      Go  1 " 

Mis  little  daughter  hesitated  for  another  instant  as 
though  she  would  have  clung  about  him  still,  or  had 
some  lingering  hope  that  he  might  raise  her  in  his  arms 
and  kiss  her.  She  looked  up  in  his  face  once  more.  He 
thought  how  like  her  expression  was  then,  to  what  it  had 
been  when  she  looked  round  at  the  doctor  —  that  night 
—  and  instinctively  dropped  her  hand  and  turned  away. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  Florence  was  at 
A  great  disadvantage  in  her  father's  presence.  It  was 
not  only  a  constraint  upon  the  child's  mind,  but  even 
U|)on  the  natural  grace  and  freedom  of  her  actions. 
Siill  Polly  persevered  with  all  the  better  heart  for  see- 
ing this ;  and,  judging  of  Mr.  Domb«'y  by  herself,  had 
great   coniidence   in    the    mute    appeal   of    poor   little 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  53 

Florence's  mourning-dress.  "  It's  hard  indeed,"  thongbt 
Polly,  "  if  lie  takes  only  to  one  little  motherless  child, 
when  he  has  another,  and  that  a  girl,  before  his  eyes." 

So,  Polly  kept  her  before  his  eyes,  as  long  as  she 
could,  and  managed  so  well  with  little  Paul,  as  to  make 
h  very  plain  that  he  was  all  the  livelier  for  bis  sister's 
company.  When  it  was  time  to  withdraw  up-staii'8 
again,  she  would  have  sent  Florence  into  the  int»er 
room  to  say  good-night  to  her  father,  but  the  child  was 
timid  and  drew  back  ;  and  when  she  urged  her  again, 
said,  spreading  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut 
out  her  own  unworfhiness,  "  Oh  no,  no !  He  don't  want 
me.     He  don't  want  me !  " 

The  little  ahercation  between  them  had  attracted  the 
notice  of  Mr.  Dombey,  who  inquired  from  the  tal)le 
where  he  was  sitting  at  his  wine,  what  the  matter  was. 

"  Mi>s  Florence  was  afraid  of  interrupting,  sir,  if  she 
came  in  to  say  good-night,"  said  Richards. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  "  You 
can  let  her  come  and  go  without  regarding  me." 

The  child  shrunk  as  she  listened  —  and  was  gone,  be- 
fore her  humble  friend  looked  round  again. 

However,  Polly  triumphed  not  a  little  in  tiie  success 
of  her  well-intentioned  scheme,  and  in  the  address  with 
which  she  had  brought  it  to  bear :  whereof  she  made  a 
lull  disclosure  to  Spitfire  when  she  was  once  more  safely 
intrenched  up-stairs.  Miss  Nipper  received  that  proof 
of  her  confidence,  as  well  as  the  prospect  of  their  free 
association  for  the  future,  rather  coldly,  and  was  any- 
diing  but  enthusiastic  in  her  demonstrations  of  joy. 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  been  pleased,"  said  Polly. 

"  Uh  yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  I'm  very  well  pleased,  thank 
fou,"  returned  Susan,  who  had  suddenly  become  so  very 


54  DOMBEY  AND  SOM. 

upright  that  she  seemed  to  have  put  an  additional  bone 
in  her  stays. 

"  You  don't  show  it,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh !  Being  only  a  permanency  I  couldn't  be  ex- 
pected to  show  it  like  a  temporary,"  said  Susan  Nipper- 
"  Tompoiaries  carries  it  all  before  'em  here,  I  find,  but 
though  there's  a*  excellent  party-wall  between  this  house 
and  the  next,  1  mayn't  exactly  like  to  go  to  it,  Mrs. 
Richards,  notwithstanding  I " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  55 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN    WHICH   SOME    MOKE    FIRST   APPEARANCES    ARE    MADE 
ON   THE   STAGE   OF    THESE   ADVENTURES. 

Though  the  offices  of  Dorabey  and  Son  were  within 
the  liberties  of  the  city  of  London,  and  within  hearing 
of  Bow  Bells,  when  their  clashing  voices  were  not 
drowned  by  the  uproar  in  the  streets,  yet  were  there 
hints  of  adventurous  and  romantic  story  to  be  observed 
in  some  of  the  adjacent  objects.  Gog  and  Magog  held 
their  state  witiiin  ten  minutes'  walk ;  the  Royal  Ex- 
change was  close  at  hand ;  the  Bank  of  England  with 
its  vaults  of  gold  and  silver  "  down  among  the  dead 
men  "  underground,  was  their  magnificent  neighbor. 
Just  round  the  corner  stood  the  rich  East  India  House, 
teeming  with  suggestions  of  precious  stuffs  and  stones, 
tigers,  elephants,  howdahs,  hookahs,  umbrellas,  palm- 
trees,  palanquins,  and  gorgeous  princes  of  a  brown  com- 
plexion sitting  on  carpets  with  their  slippers  very  much 
turned  up  at  the  toes.  Anywhere  in  the  huraediate 
vicinity  there  might  be  seen  pictures  of  ships  speeding 
away  full  sail  to  all  parts  of  the  world ;  outfitting  ware- 
h()iises  ready  to  pack  off  anybody  anywhere,  fully 
equipped  in  half  an  hour  ;  and  little  timber,  midshi|>- 
men  in  obsolete  naval  uniforms,  eternally  employed  oufc- 
side  the  shop-doors  of  nautical  instrument-makers  in 
taking  observations  of  the  hacRney -coaches. 


56  DOMBET   AXD  SON. 

Sole  ma.-for  and  proprietor  of  one  of  tliese  effigies  — 
of  that  wliicli  might  be  called,  rarailiarly,  the  woodenewt 

—  of  that  which  thrust  itself  ont  above  the  pavement, 
right  leg  foremost,  with  a  suavity  the  least  endurable, 
mid  had  the  shoe-buckles  and  flsipped  waistcoat  the  least 
T  roucihible  to  luimau  reason,  and  bore  at  its  right  eye 

lie  most  olTensively  disproportionate  piece  of  niachinerj 

—  sole  master  and  pi-oprietor  of  that  midshipman,  and 
proud  of  him  too,  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a  Welsh  wig 
bad  paid  house-rent,  taxes,  and  dues,  for  more  years  than 
many  a  full-grown  midshipman  of  flesh  and  blood  haa 
numbered  in  his  life ;  and  midshipmen  who  liave  at- 
tained a  pretty  green  old  age,  have  not  been  wanting  in 
the  English  navy. 

The  stock  in  trade  of  this  old  gentleman  comprised 
ehronometers,  barometers,  telescopes,  coni[)asses,  charts, 
maps,  sextants,  quadrants,  and  specimens  of  every  kind 
of  instrument  used  in  the  working  of  a  ship's  course,  oi 
the  keeping  of  a  ship's  reckoning,  or  the  prosecuting  of 
a  ship's  discoveries.  Objects  in  brass  and  glass  were  ii 
his  drawers  and  on  his  shelves,  which  none  but  the  in 
ilialed  could  have  found  the  top  of,  or  guessed  the  usr 
of,  or  having  once  examined,  could  have  ever  got  back  , 
again  into  their  mahogany  nests  without  assistance 
Everything  was  jammed  into  the  tightest  cases,  fitted 
into  the  narrowest  coi-ners,  fenced  up  behind  the  most 
impertinent  cushions,  and  screwed  into  the  acutest  an- 
gles, to  prevent  its  piiilosophical  composure  from  being 
di:UMrbed  by  the  rolling  of  the  sea.  Such  extraordinary 
prcv'autions  were  taken  in  every  instance  to  save  room, 
and  keep  the  thing  c-ompact ;  and  so  much  practical  nav- 
igation was  fitted,  and  cushioned,  and  screwed  into  every 
box  (whelher  the  box  was  a  mere  slab,  as  some  were,  or 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  67 

Homethinj;  \)el\veen  a  cocked-hat  and  a  star-fish,  as  others 
were,  and  those  quite  mild  and  modest  boxes  as  com- 
pared with  others)  ;  that  the  shop  itself,  partaking  of 
the  gcnerffl  infection,  seemed  almost  to  become  a  snug, 
pea-going,  ship-shape  concern,  wanting  only  good  tea- 
room, in  the  event  of  an  unexpected  launch,  to  work.  ilB 
way  securely  to  any  desert  island  in  the  world. 

Many  minor  incidents  in  the  household  life  of  the 
Ships'  Instrument-maker  who  was  proud  of  his  little 
midshipman,  assisted  and  bore  out  this  fancy.  His  ac- 
quaintance lying  chiefly  among  ship-chandlers  and  so 
forth,  he  had  always  ))lenfy  of  the  veritable  ships'  biscuit 
on  his  table.  It  was  familiar  with  dried  meats  and 
tongues,  y)Ossessing  an  extraordinary  flavor  of  rope-yarn. 
Pickles  were  produced  upon  it,  in  great  wholesale  jar.-, 
with  "  dealer  in  all  kinds  of  Ships'  Provisions  "  on  tiie 
label ;  spirits  Avere  set  forth  in  case  bottles  with  no 
iliroats.  Old  prints  of  ships  with  alphabetical  refer- 
ences to  their  various  mysteries,  hung  in  frames  upon 
the  wails ;  the  Tartar  Frigate  under  weigh,  was  on  the 
plates ;  outlandish  shells,  seaweeds,  and  mosses,  deco- 
rated the  chimney-piece  ;  the  little  wainscoted  back- 
parlor  was  lighted  by  a  skylight,  like  a  cabin. 

Here  he  lived  too,  in  skipper-like  state,  all  alone  with 
bis  nephew  Walter :  a  boy  of  fourteen  who  looked  quite 
enough  like  a  midshipman,  to  carry  out  tlie  prevailitig 
ilea.  But  there  it  ended,  for  Solomon  Gills  himself 
{more  generally  called  old  Sol)  was  far  fron  having  a 
maritime  appearance.  To  say  nothing  of  his  Welsh 
wig,  which  was  as  plain  and  stubborn  a  Welsh  wig  as 
ever  was  worn,  and  in  which  he  looked  like  anythinf 
l)ut  a  Rover,  he  was  a  slow,  quiet-spoken,  thoughtful  old 
fellow,  with  eyes  as  red  as  if  they  had  been  small  suns 


58  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

looking  at  you  through  a  fog;  and  a  newly-awakened 
manner,  such  as  he  might  have  acquii-ed  by  having 
Btared  for  three  or  four  days  successively,  through  every 
optical  instrument  in  his  shop,  and  suddenly  came  back 
to  the  world  again,  to  find  it  green.  The  only  change 
ever  known  in  his  outward  man,  was  from  a  complet 
suit  of  coffee-color  cut  very  square,  and  ornamente 
with  glaring  buttons,  to  the  same  suit  of  coffee-color 
minus  the  inexpressibles,  which  were  then  of  a  palf 
nankeen.  He  wore  a  very  precise  shirt-frill,  and  car- 
ried a  pair  of  first-rate  spectacles  on  his  forehead,  and 
a  tremendous  chronometer  in  his  fob,  rather  than  doubt 
which  precious  possession,  he  would  have  believed  in  a 
conspiracy  against  it  on  the  part  of  all  the  clocks  and 
watches  in  the  city,  and  even  of  the  very  Sun  itself. 
Such  as  he  was,  such  he  had  been  in  the  shop  and  par- 
lor behind  the  little  midshipman,  for  years  upon  years  ; 
going  regularly  aloft  to  bed  every  night  in  a  howling 
garret  remote  from  the  lodgers,  where,  when  gentlemen 
of  England  who  lived  below  at  ease  had  little  or  no 
idea  of  the  state  of  the  weather,  it  often  blew  great 
guns. 

It  is  half-past  five  o'clock,  and  an  autumn  afternoon, 
when  the  reader  and  Solomon  Gills  become  acquainted. 
Solomon  Gills  is  in  the  act  of  seeing  what  time  it  is  by 
the  unimpeachable  chronometer.  The  usual  daily  clear- 
ance has  been  makingln  the  city  for  an  hour  or  more ; 
»nd  the  human  tide  is  still  rolling  westward.  "  Tha 
streets  have  thinned,"  as  Mr.  Gills  says,  "  very  much." 
It  threatens  to  be  wet  to-night.  All  the  weather-glasstjs 
in  the  shop  are  in  low  spirits,  and  the  rain  already 
shines  upon  the  cocked-hat  of  the  wooden  midshipman. 

"  Where's  Waller,  I  wonder !  "  said  Solomon  Gills, 


DOMBET  AND  SON  .W 

after  lie  had  carefully  put  up  the  chronometer  a^ain. 
"  Here's  dinner  been  ready  half  an  hour,  and  no  Wal- 
ter ! " 

Turning  round  upon  his  stool  behind  the  counter,  Mr. 
Gills  looked  out  among  the  instruments  in  the  window, 
to  see  if  his  nephew  might  be  crossing  the  road.  No- 
He  was  not  among  the  bobbing  umbrellas,  and  he  cer- 
tainly was  not  the  newspaper-boy  in  the  oilskin  cap  who 
was  slowly  working  his  way  along  the  piece  of  brass  out- 
eide,  writing  his  name  over  Mr.  Gills'  name  with  his 
foreflnger. 

"  If  I  didn't  know  he  was  too  fond  of  me  to  make  a 
run  of  it,  and  go  and  enter  himself  aboard  ship  against 
my  wishes,  I  should  begin  to  be  fidgety,"  said  Mr.  Gills, 
tapping  two  or  three  weather-glasses  with  his  knuckles. 
"  I  really  should.  All  in  the  Downs,  eh !  Lots  of 
moisture  !     Well !  it's  wanted." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  blowing  the  dust  off  the 
glass  top  of  a  compass  case,  "  that  you  don't  point  more 
direct  and  due  to  the  back-parlor  than  the  boy's  incli- 
nation does  after  all.  And  the  parlor  couldn't  bear 
straighter  either.  Due  north.  Not  the  twentieth  part 
of  a  point  either  way." 

«  Halloa,  Uncle  Sol !  " 

"  Halloa,  my  boy  !  "  cried  the  Instrument-raaker,  turn- 
ing briskly  round.     "  What !  you  are  here,  are  you  !  " 

A  cheerful-looking,  merry  boy,  fresh  with  running 
home  in  the  rain ;  fair-faced,  bright-eyed,  and  curly- 
haired. 

"  Well,  uncle,  how  have  you  got  on  without  me  all 
day  !     Is  dinner  ready  ?     I'm  so  hungry." 

"  As  to  getting  on,"  said  Solomon,  good-naturedly,  "  it 
would  be  odd  if  I  couldn't  get  on  without  a  young  d<^ 


60  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

like  you  a  great  deal  better  than  with  you.  As  to  dinnet 
heing  ready,  it's  been  ready  this  half  hour  and  waiting 
for  you.     As  to  being  hungry,  /ara  !  " 

"  Coine  along  then,  uncle  !  "  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurral 
for  tlie  adniiijil !  " 

"  Confound  the  admiral !  "  returned  Solomon  Gills 
*  You  mean  the  Lord  Mayor." 

"  No  1  don't !  "  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurrah  for  the  ad- 
miral.     Hurraii  lor  the  admiral  !      For — ward  !  " 

At  this  word  of  connnand,  the  Welsh  wig  and  ita 
wearer  were  borne  without  resistance  into  the  back-par- 
lor, as  at  the  head  of  a  boarding-party  of  five  hundred 
men ;  and  uncle  Sol  and  his  nephew  were  speedily 
engaged  on  a  fried  sole  with  a  prospect  of  steak  to 
follow. 

"  The  Lord  Mayor,  Waily,"  said  Solomon,  "  forever ! 
No  more  admirals.     The  Lord  Mayor's  your  admiral." 

"Oh,  is  he  though!  "  said  the  boy,  shaking  ids  head. 
"Why,  the  Sword  Bearer's  belter  than  him.  He  draws 
his  sword  sometimes." 

"  And  a  pretty  figure  he  cuts  witli  it  for  his  pains," 
returned  the  uncle.  "  Listen  to  me  Wally,  listen  to  me. 
Look  on  the  mantel-shelf." 

"  Wliy  who  has  cocked  my  silver  mug  up  there,  on 
a  nail !  "  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  I  have,"  said  his  uncle.  "  No  more  mugs  now. 
We  must  begin  to  drink  out  of  glasses  to-day,  Walter. 
We  are  men  of  business.  We  belong  to  the  city.  We 
stalled  in  life  this  morning." 

"Well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  "*' I'll  drink  out  of  any- 
thing you  like,  so  long  as  I  can  drink  to  you.  Here's 
10  you.  Uncle  Sol,  and  hurrah  for  the"  — 

"  Lord  Mayor,"  interrupted  the  old  man. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  61 

•*  For  the  Lord  Mayor,  Sheriffs,  Common  Council, 
iind  Livory,"  said  the  boy.     "  Long  life  to  'em ! " 

The  uncle  nodded  his  head  with  great  satisfaction. 
"And  now,"  he  said,  "let's  hear  something  about  the 
Firm." 

"Oh!  there's  not  much  to  be  told  about  the  Firm, 
ODcIe,''  said  the  boy,  plying  his  knife  and  fork.  "  It's 
a  precious  dark  set  of  offices,  and  in  the  room  where 
I  sit,  there's  a  high  fender,  and  an  iron  safe,  and  some 
cards  about  ships  that  are  going  to  sail,  and  an  alma- 
nac, and  some  desks  and  stools,  and  an  ink-bottle,  and 
Bome  books,  and  some  boxes,  and  a  lot  of  cobwebs,  and 
in  one  of  'em,  just  over  my  head,  a  shrivelled-up  blue- 
bottle that  looks  as  if  it  had  hung  there  ever  so  long." 

"  Nothing  else  ?  "  said  the  uncle. 

"  No,  nothing  else,  except  an  old  bird-cage  (I  wonder 
how  that  ever  came  there  !)  and  a  coal-scuttle." 

"  No  bankers'  books,  or  check  books,  or  bills,  or  such 
tokens  of  wealth  rolling  in  from  day  to  day  ?  "  said  old 
Sol,  looking  wistfully  at  his  nephew  out  of  the  fog  that 
always  seemed  to  hang  about  him,  and  laying  an  unc- 
tuous emphasis  upon  the  words. 

"  Oh  yes,  plenty  of  that  I  suppose,"  returned  his 
nephew  carelessly ;  "  but  all  that  sort  of  thing's  in  Mr. 
Carker's  room,  or  Mr.  Morfin's,  or  Mr.  Dombey's." 

*'  Has  Mr.  Dombey  been  there  to-day  ?  "  inquired  the 
ancle. 

"Oh  yes!     In  and  out  all  day." 

"  He  didn't  take  any  notice  of  you,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes  he  did.  He  walked  up  to  my  seat,  —  I  wish 
he  wasn't  so  solemn  and  stiff,  uncle  —  and  said  'Oh! 
you  are  the  son  of  Mr.  Gills  the  Ships'  Instrument- 
maker.'     'Nephew,  sir,'  I  said.     'I  said  nephew,  boy,' 


62  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

laid  he.  But  I  could  take  my  oath  he  eaid  aoa, 
uncle." 

"  you're  mistaken  I  dare  say.     It's  no  matter.** 

**  No,  it's  no  matter,  but  he  needn't  have  been  so 
Bharp,  I  thought.  There  was  no  harm  in  it  though  he 
did  say  son.  Then  he  told  me  that  you  had  spoken  to 
him  about  me,  and  that  he  had  found  me  employment 
hi  tlie  House  accordingly,  and  that  I  was  expected  to 
be  attentive  and  punctual,  and  then  he  went  away.  I 
thought  he  didn't  seem  to  like  me  much." 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,"  observed  the  Instrument- 
maker,  "that  you  didn't  seem  to  like  him  much." 

"  Well,  uncle,"  returned  the  boy,  laughing.  "  Per- 
haps so  j^  I  never  thought  of  tliat." 

Solomon  looked  a  little  graver  as  he  finished  his  din- 
ner, and  glanced  i'rom  time  to  time  at  the  boy's  bright 
face.  When  dinner  was  done,  and  the  cloth  was  cleared 
away  (the  entertainment  had  been  brought  from  a  neigh- 
boring eating-house),  he  lighted  a  candle,  and  went  down 
below  into  a  little  cellar,  while  his  nephew,  standing  on 
the  mouldy  staircase,  dutifully  held  the  light.  After 
a  moment's  groping  here  and  there,  he  presently  re- 
turned with  a  very  ancient-looking  bottle,  covered  with 
dust  and  dirt. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Sol ! "  said  the  boy,  "  what  are  you 
about!  that's  the  wonderful  Madeira!  —  there's  only 
one  more  bottle!" 

Uncle  Sol  nodded  his  head,  implying  that  h«  knen 
very  well  what  he  was  about ;  and  having  drawn  tl.e 
'ork  in  solemn  silence,  filled  two  glasses  and  set  the 
bottle  and  a  third  clean  glass  on  the  table. 

"  You  shall  drink  the  Qther  bottle,  Wally,"  he  said, 
'  when   you  come  to  good    fortune ;    when   you  are   a 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  68 

tliriving,  respected,  happy  man ;  when  the  start  in  life 
you  have  made  to-day  shall  have  brought  you,  as  I 
pray  Heaven  it  may  !  —  to  a  smooth  part  of  the  course 
you  have  to  run,  my  child.     My  love  to  you !  " 

Some  of  the  fog  that  hung  about  old  Sol  seemed  to 
have  got  into  his  throat;  for  he  spoke  huskily.  His 
hand  shook  too,  as  he  clinked  his  glass  against  his 
nephew's-  But  having  once  got  the  wine  to  Ijjs  lips, 
he  tossed  it  a?  like  a  man,  and  smacked  them  after- 
wards. 

"  Dear  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  affecting  to  make  light 
of  it,  whUe  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  "  for  the  honor 
you  have  done  me,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  I  shall  now 
beg  to  propose  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  with  three  times 
three  and  one  cheer  more.  Hurrah !  and  you'll  return 
thanks,  uncle,  when  we  drink  the  last  bottle  together ; 
won't  you  ?  " 

They  clinked  their  glasses  again;  and  Walter,  who 
was  hoarding  his  wine,  took  a  sip  of  it,  and  held  tlie 
glass  up  to  his  eye  with  as  critical  an  air  as  he  could 
possibly  assume. 

His  uncle  sat  looking  at  him  for  some  time  in  silence. 
When  their  eyes  at  last  met,  he  began  at  once  to  pur- 
sue the  theme  that  had  occupied  his  thoughts,  aloud, 
as  if  he  htul  been  speaking  all  the  while. 

"  You  see,  Walter,"  he  said,- "  in  truth  this  basmess 
is  merel}  »  habit  with  me.  I  am  so  accustomed  to  the 
habit  that  1  could  hardly  live  if  I  relinquished  it :  -but 
there's  nothing  doing,  nothing  doing.  When  that  uni- 
form was  worn/'  puiniiiig  out  towards  the  little  mid- 
shipman, "  then  indeed,  fortunes  were  to  be  made,  and 
were  made.  But  competition,  competition  —  new  inven- 
tion, new  invention  —  alteration,  alteration  —  the  world*« 


64  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

gone  past  me.  I  hardly  know  where  I  am  myself; 
much  less  where  my  customers  are." 

"  Never  mind  'em  uncle  !  " 

"  Since  you  came  home  from  weekly  boarding-school 
at  Peckham,  for  instance  —  and  that's  ten  days,"  said 
Solomon,  "  I  don't  remember  more  than  one  person  that 
has  come  into  the  shop." 

"  Two  uncle,  don't  you  recollect  ?  There  was  the 
man  who  came  to  ask  for  change  for  a  sovereign "  — 

"That's  the  one,"  said  Solomon. 

"  Why  uncle  !  don't  you  call  the  woman  anybody,  who 
came  to  ask  the  way  to  Mile-end  Turnpike?" 

"  Oh !  its  true,"  said  Solomon,  "  I  forgot  her.  Two 
persons." 

"  To  be  sure,  they  didn't  buy  anything,"  cried  the 
boy. 

"  No.  They  didn't  buy  anything,"  said  Solomon, 
quietly. 

"  Nor  want  anything,"  cried  the  boy. 

"  No.  If  they  had,  they'd  gone  to  another  shop," 
Buid  Solomon,  in  the  same  tone.  ' 

"  But  there  were  two  of  'em  uncle,"  cried  the  boy 
as  if  that  were  a  great  triumph.     "  You  said  only  one." 

"  Well,  Wally,"  resumed  the  old  man,  after  a  short 
pause  :  "  not  being  like  the  savages  who  came  on  Robiu- 
i»n  Crusoe's  island,  we  can't  live  on  a  man  who  asks 
for  change  for  a  sovereign,  and  a  woman  who  inquires 
the"  way  to  Mile-end  Turnpike.  As  I  said  just  new, 
,'  the  world  has  gone  past  me.  ^  I  don't  blame  it ;  but  I 
no  longer  understand  it.  Tradesmen  are  not  the  same 
as  they  used  to  be,  apprentices  are  not  the  same,  busi- 
ness is  not  the  same,  business  commodities  are  not  the 
lame.     Seven  eighths  of  my  stock  is  old-fashioned,     i 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  65 

Bm  an  old-fashioned  man  in  an  t)ld-fashioned  shop,  in  a 
street  that  is  not  the  same  as  I  remember  it.  I  have 
fallen  behind  the  time,  and  am  too  old  to  catch  it  again. 
Even  the  noise  it  makes  a  long  way  ahead,  confuses  me." 

Walter  was  going  to  speak,  but  his  uncle  held  up  his 
hand. 

"Therefore  Wally  —  therefore  it  is  that  I  am  anxious 
you  shculd  be  early  in  the  busy  world,  and  on  the 
world's  track.  I  am  only  the  ghost  of  this  business  — 
its  substance  vanished  long  ago :  and  when  I  die,  ita 
ghost  will  be  laid.  As  it  is  clearly  no  inheritance  for 
you  then,  I  have  thought  it  best  to  use  for  your  ad- 
vantage, almost  the  only  fragment  of  the  ofd  connection 
that  stands  by  me,  through  long  habit.  Some  people 
suppose  me  to  be  wealthy.  I  wish  for  your  sake,  they 
were  rigiit.  But  whatever  I  leave  behind  me,  or  what- 
ever I  can  give  you,  you  in  such  a  house  as  Dombey'a 
are  in  the  road  to  use  well  and  make  the  most  of.  Be 
diligent,  try  to  like  it  my  dear  boy,  work  tor  a  steady 
independence,  and  be  happy  !  " 

"  I'll  do  everything  I  can,  uncle,  to  deserve  your  affec- 
tion.    Indeed  I  will,"  said  the  boy,  earnestly. 

"1  know  it,"  said  Solomon.  "I  am  sure  of  it,"  and 
he  applied  himself  to  a  second  glass  of  the  old  Madeiia, 
with  increased  relish.  "  As  to  the  sea,"  he  pursued, 
^  that's  well  enough  in  fiction,  "Wally,  but  it  won't  do  in 
ftict :  it  won't  do  at  all.  It's  natural  enough  that  yoa 
should  think  aboirt  it,  associating  it  with  all  these  "amil- 
i:ir  things  ;  but  it  won't  do,  it  won't  do." 

Solomon  Gills  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of  stealthy 
enjoyment,  as  he  talked  of  the  sea,  though  ;  and  looked 
on  the  seafaring  objects  about  him  with  inexpressibU 
»omplao?n:y. 

^OL.  I  % 


66  DOMBEY  AND  SOS". 

"  Think  of  this  wilte  for  instance,"  said  old  Sol, 
"  which  has  been  to  the  East  Indies  and  liack,  Tm  not 
able  to  say  how  often,  and  has  be*m  once  round  the 
world.  Think  of  the  pitch-dark  nights,  the  roaiiog 
winds,  and  rolling  seas : " 

"  The  thunder,  lightning,  rain,  hail,  storms  of  sJl 
kinds,"  said  the  boy. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Solomon,  —  "  that  this  wine  has 
passed  through.  Think  what  a  straining  and  creaking 
of  timbers  and  masts :  what  a  whistling  and  howling  of 
the  gale  through  ropes  and  rigging : " 

''  What  a  clambering  aloft  of  men,  vying  with  each 
other  who  diall  lie  out  first  upon  the  yards  to  furl  the 
icy  sails,  while  the  ship  rolls  and  pitches,  like  mad ! " 
cried  his  nephew. 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Solomon :  *'  has  gone  on,  over  the 
old  cask  that  held  this  wine.  Why,  when  t'.iC  Charming 
Sally  went  down  in  the  "  — 

"  In  the  Baltic  Sea,  in  the  dead  of  night ;  five-and- 
twenty  minutes  past  twelve  when  the  captain's  watch 
stopped  in  his  pocket ;  he  lying  dead  against  the  main- 
mast —  on  the  fourteenth  of  February,  seventeen  forty- 
nine  ! "  cried  Walter,  with  great  animation. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure  !  "  cried  old  Sol,  "  quite  right !  Then, 
there  were  five  hundred  casks  of  such  wine  aboard  ;  and 
all  hands  (except  the  first  mate,  first  lieutenant,  two  sua* 
men,  and  a  lady,  in  a  leaky  boat),  going  to  work  to  stave 
the  casks,  got  drunk  and  died  drunk,  singing  '  Rule  Bri- 
tannia,' when  she  settled  and  went  down,  and  ending 
with  one  awful  scream  in  cliorus.'', 

"  But  when  the  George  the  Second  drove  ashore, 
ancle,  on  the  coast  of  Cornwall,  in  a  dismal  gale  twc 
hours  before  daybreak,  on  the  fourth  of  March,  'seventy 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  -  67 

one,  she  had  near  two  hundred  horses  aboard  ;  and  the 
horses  breaking  loose  down  below,  early  in  the  gale,  and 
tearing  to  and  fro,  and  trampling  each  other  to  death, 
made  such  noises,  and  set  up  such  human  cries,  that  the 
crew  believing  the  ship  to  be  full  of  devils,  some  of  the 
best  men,  losing  heart  and  head,  went  overboard  in  de- 
spair, and  only  two  were  left  alive,  at  last,  to  tell  tlie 
tale." 

"And  when,"  said  old  Sol,  "  when  the  Polyphemus" — 

"Private  West  India  Trader,  burden,  three  hundred 
Hnd  fifty  tons,  Captain,  John  Brown  of  Deptford.  Own- 
ers, Wiggs  and  Co.,"  cried  Walter. 

"  The  same,"  said  Sol ;  "  when  she  took  fire,  four  days' 
sail  with  a  fair  wind  out  of  Jamaica  Harbor,  in  the 
night  "  — 

"  There  were  two  brothers  on  board,"  interposed  hia 
nephew,  speaking  very  fast  and  loud,  "  and  there  not  be- 
ing room  for  both  of  them  in  the  only  boat  that  wasn't 
swamped,  neither  of  them  would  consent  to  go,  until  the 
elder  took  the  younger  by  the  waist,  and  flung  him  in. 
And  then  the  younger,  rising  in  the  boat,  cried  out, 
'  Dear  Edward,  think  of  your  promised  wife  at  home. 
I'm  only  a  boy.  No  one  waits  at  home  for  me.  Leap 
down  into  my  place  ! '  and  flung  himself  in  the  sea!  " 

The  kindling  eye  and  heightened  color  of  the  boy.. 
who  had  risen  from  his  seat  in  the  earnestness  of  what 
he  said  and  felt,  seemed  to  remind  old  Sol  of  something 
he  had  forgotten,  or  that  his  encircling  mist  had  hitherto 
shut  out.  Instead  of  proceeding  with  any  more  anec- 
dotes, as  he  had  evidently  intended  but  a  moment  be- 
fore, he  gave  a  short  dry  cougii,  and  said,  "  Well !  sup- 
pose we  change  the  subject." 

Ti>e  truth   was,  that   the   simple-minded  uncle  in  hh 


68  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

seoret  attraction  towards  the  marvellous  and  adventurous 
—  of  which  he  was,  in  some  sort,  a  distant  relation,  by  his 
trade  —  had  greatly  encouraged  the  same  attraction  in 
the  nephew  ;  and  that  everything  that  had  ever  been  put 
before  the  boy  to  deter  him  from  a  life  of  adventure,  had 
had  the  usual  unaccountable  effect  of  sharpening  his 
taste  for  it.  This  is  invariable.  It  would  seem  as  if 
there  never  was  a  book  written,  or  a  story  told,  expressly 
with  the  object  of  keeping  boys  on  shore,  which  did  not 
lure  and  charm  them  to  the  ocean,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

But  an  addition  to  the  little  party  now  made  its  ap- 
pearance, in  the  shape  of  a  gentleman  in  a  wide  suit  of 
blue,  with  a  hook  instead  of  a  hand  attached  to  his  right 
wrist;  very  bushy  black  eyebrows;  and  a  thick  stick  in 
his  left  hand,  covered  all  over  (like  his  nose)  with  knobs. 
He  wore  a  loose  black  silk  handkerchief  round  his  neck, 
and  such  a  very  large  coarse  shirt  collar,  that  it  looked 
like  a  small  sail.  He  was  evidently  the  person  for  whom 
the  spare  wineglass  was  intended,  and  evidently  knew 
it ;  for  having  taken  off  his  rough  outer  coat,  and  hung 
up,  on  a  particular  peg  behind  the  door,  such  a  hard 
glazed  hat  as  a  sympathetic  person's  head  might  ache  at 
the  sight  of,  and  which  left  a  red  rim  round  his  own 
forehead  as  if  he  had  been  wearing  a  tight  basin,  he 
brought  a  chair  to  where  the  clean  glass  was,  and  sat 
himself  down  behind  it.  He  was  usually  addressed  as 
Captain,  this  visitor ;  and  had  been  a  pilot,  or  a  skipper, 
or  a  privateersman,  or  all  three  perhaps ;  and  was  a  very 
salt-looking  man  indeed. 

His  face,  remarkable  for  a  brown  solidity,  brightened' 
as   he    shook    hands  with    uncle   and   nephew ;    but  hfl 
seemed  to  be  of  a  laconic  disposition,  and  merely  said 

'*How  Koes  it?" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  6> 

"  All  well,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  pushing  the  bottle  (owarda 
111  in. 

He  took  it  up,  and  having  surveyed  and  smelt  it,  saia 
with  extraordinary  expression  : 

"  7'lie"  returned  the  Instrument-maker. 

Upon  that  he  whistled  as  he  filled  his  glass,  and  see  met 
(o  think  they  were  making  holiday  indeed. 

"  Wal'r!  "  he  said,  arranging  his  hair  (which  was  thin) 
with  his  hook,  and  then  pointing  it  at  the  Instrument- 
maker,  "  Look  at  him  !  Love  !  Honor  !  And  Obey  1 
Overhaul  your  catechism  till  you  find  that  passage,  and 
when  found  turn  the  leaf  down.     Success,  my  boy  !  " 

He  was  so  perfectly  satisfied  both  with  his  quotation 
and  his  reference  to  it,  that  he  could  not  help  repeating 
the  words  again  in  a  low  voice,  and  saying  he  had  for- 
gotten 'em  these  forty  year. 

''  But  I  never  wanted  two  or  three  words  in  my  life 
that  I  didn't  knoAv  where  to  lay  my  hand  upon  'em- 
Gills,"  he  observed.  '*  It  comes  of  not  wasting  lan- 
guage as  some  do" 

The  reflectior.  perhaps  reminded  him  that  he  I'.ad  bet- 
ter, like  young  Norval's  father,  ''  increase  his  store."  At 
any  rate  he  became  silent,  and  remained  so,  until  old  Sol 
went  out  into  the  shop  to  light  it  up,  when  he  turned  to 
Walter,  and  said,  without  any  introductory  remark  :  — 

"  I  suppose  he  could  make  a  clock  if  he  tried  ?  " 

"  1  shouldn't  wonder,  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the 
boy. 

"And  it  would  go!"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  making  a 
species  of  serpent  in  the  air  with  his  hook.  "  Lord,  how 
ihat  clock  would  go  I " 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  seemed  quite  lost  in  contem 


70  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

plating  the  pace  of  this  ideal  timepiece,  and  sat  looking 
nt  the  boy  as  if  his  face  were  the  dial. 

"  But  he's  chock-full  of  science,"  he  observed,  waving 
his  hook  towards  the  stock-in-trade.  "  Look  'ye  here  1 
Here's  a  collection  of  'em.  Earth,  air,  or  water.  It's 
all  one.  Only  say  where  you'll  have  it.  Up  in  a  bal- 
loon ?  There  you  are.  Down  in  a  bell  ?  There  you 
are.  D'ye  want  to  put  the  North  Star  in  a  pair  of 
Bcalss,  and  weigh  it.     He'll  do  it  for  you." 

It  may  be  gathered  from  these  remarks  that  Captain 
Cuttle's  reverence  for  the  stock  of  instruments  was  pro- 
found, and  that  his  philosophy  knew  little  or  no  distinc- 
tion between  trading  in  it  and  inventing  it. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  it's  a  fine  thing  to  un- 
derstand 'em.  And  yet  it's  a  fine  thing  not  to  under- 
stand 'era.  I  hardly  know  which  is  best.  It's  so  com- 
fortable to  sit  here  and  feel  that  you  might  be  weighed, 
measured,  magnified,  electrified,  polarized,  played  the 
very  devil  with :  and  never  know  how." 

Nothing  short  of  the  wonderful  Madeira,  combined 
with  the  occasion  (which  rendered  it  desirable  to  im- 
prove and  expand  Walter's  mind),  could  have  ever 
loosened  his  tongue  to  the  extent  of  giving  utterance 
to  this  prodigious  oration.  He  seemed  quite  amazed 
himself  at  the  manner  in  which  it  opened  up  to  view  the 
sources  of  the  taciturn  delight  he  had  had  in  eating  Sun- 
day dinners  in  that  parlor  for  ten  years.  Becoming 
Badder  and  a  w\ser  man,  he  mused  and  held  his  peace." 

"  Come  !  "  cried  the  subject  of  his  admiration,  return- 
ing. "  Before  you  have  your  glass  of  grog,  Ned,  we 
must  finish  the  bottle." 

"  Stand  by !  "  said  Ned,  filling  his  glass.  "  Give  the 
V)y  some  more." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  71 

"  No  more,  iliank'e,  uncle  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Scl,  "  a  litlle  more.  We'll  finish  the 
bottle,  to  the  House,  Ned  —  Walter's  house.  AVhy  it 
may  be  his  house  one  of  these  days,  in  part.  Who 
knows  ?  Sir  Richard  Whittington  married  his  master's 
ilaughler." 

"  '  Turn  again  Wliittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
oad  when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it,' " 
•jiterposed  the  Captain.  "  Wal'r !  Overhaul  the  book, 
my  lad." 

"  And  although  IMr.  Dorabey  hasn't  a  daughter,"  Sol 
began. 

"  Yes,  yes,  he  has,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  reddening  and 
laughing. 

"  Has  he  ?  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  Indeed  I  think  he 
has  too." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  he  has,"  said  the  boy.  "  Some  of  'em 
were  talking  about  it  in  the  office  to-day.  And  they  do 
Bay,  uncle  and  Captain  Cuttle,"  lowering  his  voice,  "  that 
he's  taken  a  dislike  to  her,  and  that  she's  left,  unnoticed, 
among  tlie  servants,  and  that  his  mind's  so  set  all  the 
while  upon  having  his  son  in  the  House,  that  although 
he's  only  a  baby  now  he  is  going  to  have  balances  struck 
oftener  than  formerly,  and  the  books  kept  closer  than 
they  used  to  be,  and  has  even  been  seen  (when  he 
thought  he  wasn't)  walking  in  the  Docks,  looking  at 
his  ships  and  prop(;rty  and  all  that,  as  if  he  was  exulting 
Uke,  over  wliat  he  and  his  son  will  possess  together. 
That's  what  they  say.     Of  course  /  don't  know." 

*'  He  knows  all  about  her  already,  you  see,"  said  the 
Instrument-maker. 

"  Nonsense,  uncle,"  cried  the  boy,  still  reddening  and 
laughing,  boy-like.  "  How  can  I  help  hearing  what 
Uiey  teU  me?" 


72  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  The  son's  a  little  in  our  way  at  present,  Fm  afraid, 
Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  humoring  the  joke. 

"  Very  much,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Nevertheless,  we'll  drink  him,"  pursued  Sol.  "  So^ 
here's  to  Dombey  and  Son." 

"  Oil.  very  well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  merrily.  "  Since 
you  have  introduced  the  mention  of  her,  and  have  con- 
nected me  with  her,  and  have  said  that  I  know  all  about 
her,  I  shall  make  bold  to  amend  the  toast  So  hei"e'8  Co 
Dombey  —  and  Son  —  and  Daughter  1 " 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  73 


CHAPTER  V. 

Paul's  progress  and  christening. 

Little  Paul,  suffering  no  contamination  from  the 
blood  of  the  Toodles,  grew  stouter  and  stronger  every 
day.  Every  day,  too,  he  was  more  and  more  ardently 
cherished  by  Miss  Tox,  whose  devotion  was  so  far  ap- 
preciated by  Mr.  Dombey  that  he  began  to  regard  her 
as  a  woman  of  great  natural  good  sense,  whose  feelings 
(lid  her  credit  and  deserved  encouragement.  He  was  so 
lavish  of  this  condescension,  that  he  not  only  bowed  to 
her,  in  a  particular  manner,  on  several  occasions,  but 
even  intrusted  such  stately  recognitions  of  her  to  his 
sister  as  "  pray  tell  your  friend,  Louisa,  that  she  is  very 
good,"  or  "  mention  to  Miss  Tox,  Louisa,  that  I  am 
obliged  to  her  ; "  specialities  which  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  the  lady  thus  distinguished. 

Miss  Tox  was  often  in  the  habit  of  assuring  Mrs. 
Chick,  that  "  nothing  could  exceed  her  interest  in  all 
connected  with  the  development  of  that  sweet  child ; " 
and  an  observer  of  Miss  Tox's  proceedings  might  have 
inferred  so  much  without  declaratory  confirmation.  She 
would  preside  over  the  innocent  repasts  of  the  young 
heir,  with  ineffable  satisfaction,  almost  with  an  air  of 
joint  proprietorship  with  Richards  in  the  entertainment. 
A.t  the  little  ceremonies  of  the  bath  and  toilet,  she 
assisted  with  enthusiasm.     The  administration  of  infan- 


74  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

tine  doses  of  physic  awakened  all  the  active  sympathy 
of  her  character ;  and  being  on  one  occasion  secreted 
in  a  cupboard  (whither  she  had  fled  in  modesty),  when 
Mr.  Dombey  was  introduced  into  the  nursery  by  his 
Bister,  to  behold  his  son,  in  the  course  of  preparation 
for  bed,  taking  a  short  walk  ujj-hill  over  Richards's 
gown,  in  a  short  and  airy  linen  jacket,  Miss  Tox  wai 
90  transported  beyond  the  ignoi-ant  present  as  to  be 
nnable  to  refrain  fi'oin  crying  out,  ••  Is  he  not  beauti- 
ful, Mr.  Dorabey  !  Is  he  not  a  Cupid,  sir ! "  and  tLen 
almost  sinking  behind  the  closet-door  with  confusion  and 
blushes. 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  one  day,  to  his  sister, 
"  I  really  think  I  must  present  your  friend  with  some 
little  token,  on  the  occasion  of  Paul's  christening.  She 
has  exerted  herself  so  warmly  in  the  child's  behalf 
from  the  first,  and  seems  to  understand  her  position  so 
thoroughly  (a  very  rare  merit  in  this  world,  I  am  sorry 
to  say),  that  it  would  really  be  agreeable  to  me  to  notice 
her." 

Let  it  be  no  detraction  from  the  merits  of  Miss  Tox, 
to  hint  that  in  Mr.  Doinbey's  eyes,  as  in  some  others 
that  occasionally  see  the  light,  they  only  achieved  that 
mighty  piece  of  knowledge,  the  understanding  of  their 
own  position,  who  showed  a  fitting  reverence  for  his. 
It  was  not  so  much  their  merit  that  they  knew  them- 
selves, as  that  they  knew  him,  and  bowed  low  before  him 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  "  you  do  Miss 
Pox  but  justice,  as  a  man  of  your  penetration  was  sure. 

knew,  to  do.  I  believe  if  there  are  three  words  in 
the  English  language  for  which  she  has  a  respect 
amounting  almost  to  veneration,  those  words  are,  Dora- 
bey and  Son." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON".       .  76 

"^'Well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "I  helieve  it.  It  does 
Miss  Tox  credit." 

"  And  as  to  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  token,  my  dear 
Paul,"  pui-sued  his  sister,  "  all  I  can  say  is  that  anything 
you  give  Miss  Tox  will  be  hoarded  and  prized,  I  am 
Buro,  like  a  relic.  But  there  is  a  way,  my  dear  Paul, 
of  shewing  your  senile  of  Miss  Tox's  friendliness  in  a 
gtill  more  flattering  and  acceptable  manner,  if  you  should 
be  so  inclined." 

"  How  is  tiiat  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Godfathers,  of  course,"  continued  Mrs.  Chick,  "are 
important  in  point  of  connection  and  influence." 

"  I  don't  know  why  they  should  be,  to  my  son,"  said 
Mr.  Doml^ey  coldly. 

"  Very  true,  my  dear  Paul,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick, 
with  an  extraordinary'  show  of  animation,  to  cover  the 
suddenness  of  her  conversion;  "and  spoken  like  your- 
self. I  might  have  expected  nothing  else  from  you.  I 
might  have  known  that  such  would  have  been  your 
opinion.  Perhaps  ; "  here  Mrs.  Chick  flattered  again, 
as  not  quite  comfortably  feeling  her  way  ;  "  perhaps  that 
is  a  reason  why  you  might  have  the  less  objection  to 
allowing  Miss  Tox  to  be  godmother  to  the  dear  thing, 
if  it  were  only  ^s  deputy  and  proxy  for  some  one  elsOi 
That  it  would  be  received  as  a  great  honor  and  distinc- 
tion, Paul,  I  need  not  say." 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  a  short  pause,  "  it 
is  not  to  be  supposed"  — 

"  Certainly  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  hastening  to  antici- 
pate a  refusal,  "  I  never  thought  it  was."  ■ 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  her  impatiently. 

"  Don't  flurry  me,  my  dear  Paul,"   said  his  sister  •• 

for   that    destroys    me.      I    am    far   from    strong.      I 


76  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

have  not  been  quite  myself,  since  poor  dear  Fanny 
departed." 

Mr.  Doinbey  glanced  at  the  po(.ket-handkerchief 
which  his  sister  applied  to  her  eyes  and  resumed:  — 

"  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  I  say "  — 

"  And  I  say,"  murmured  Mrs.  Chick,  "  that  I  never 
thought  it  was." 

"  Gk)od  Heaven,  Louisa ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

*'  No,  my  dear  Paul,"  she  remonstrated  with  tearful 
dignity,  "  I  must  really  be  allowed  to  speak.  I  am  not 
BO  clever,  or  so  reasoning,  or  so  eloquent,  or  so  anything, 
as  you  are.  I  know  that  very  well.  So  much  the  worse 
for  me.  But  if  they  were  the  last  words  I  had  to  utter 
—  and  last  words  should  be  very  solemn  to  you  and  me, 
Paul,  after  poor  dear  Fanny  —  I  should  still  say  I  never 
thought  it  was.  And  what  is  more,"  added  Mrs.  Chick 
with  increased  dignity,  as  if  she  had  withheld  her  crush- 
ing argument  until  now,  "  I  never  did  think  it  was." 

Mr.  Dombey  walked  to  the  window  and  back  again. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  Louisa,"  he  said  (Mrs. 
Chick  had  nailed  her  colors  to  the  mast,  and  repeated 
**  I  know  it  isn't,"  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it),  "  but 
that  there  are  many  persons  who,  supposing  that  I  rec- 
ognized any  claim  at  all  in  such  a  case,  have  a  claim 
upon  me  superior  to  Miss  Tox's.  But  I  do  not.  I  reo 
agnize  no  such  thing.  Paul  and  myself  will  be  able, 
when  the  time  comes,  to  hold  our  own  —  the  house,  in 
other  words,  will  be  able  to  hold  its  own,  and  maintain 
its  own,  and  hand  down  its  own  of  itself,  and  without 
imy  such  commonplace  aids.  The  kind  of  foreign  help 
which  people  usually  seek  for  their  children,  I  can  afford 
to  despise ;  being  above  it,  I  hope.  So  that  Paul's  in- 
fancy and  childhood  pass   away  well,  and  I  see   hino 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  77 

becoming  qualified  without  waste  of  time  for  the  career 
on  which  he  is  destined  to  enter,  I  am  satisfied.  He 
will  make  what  powerful  friends  he  pleases  in  after-life, 
when  he  is  actively  maintaining  —  and  extending,  if  that 
is  possible  —  the  dignity  and  credit  of  the  Firm.  Until 
then,  I  am  enough  for  him,  perhaps,  and  all  in  all.  I 
Lave  no  wish  that  peoi)le  should  step  in  between  us.  I 
would  much  rather  show  my  sense  of  the  obliging  ct)n- 
duct  of  a  deserving  person  like  your  friend.  Therefore 
let  it  be  so ;  and  your  husband  and  myself  will  do  well 
enougli  for  the  other  sponsors,  I  dare  say." 

In  the  course  of  these  remarks,  delivered  with  great 
majesty  and  grandeur,  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  revealed 
the  secret  feelings  of  his  breast.  An  indesqribable  dis- 
trust of  anybody  stepping  in  between  himself  and  his  son: 
a  haughty  dread  of  having  any  rival  or  partner  in  the 
boy's  respect  and  deference  ;  a  sharp  misgiving,  recently 
acquired,  that  he  was  not  infallible  in  his  power  of  bend- 
ing and  binding  human  wills  ;  as  sharp  a  jealousy  of  any 
second  check  or  cross  ;  these  were,  at  that  time,  the  mas- 
ter-keys of  his  soul.  In  all  his  life,  he  had  never  made 
a  friend.  His  cold  and  distant  nature  had  neither  sought 
one,  nor  found  one.  And  now  when  that  nature  concen- 
trated its  whole  force  so  strongly  on  a  partial  fcheme  of 
parental  interest  and  ambition,  it  seemed  as  if  its  icy 
current,  instead  of  being  released  by  this  influence,  and 
tunning  clear  and  free,  had  thawed  for  but  an  instant 
to  admit  its  burden,  and  then  frozen  with  it  into  one 
myielding  block. 

Elevated  thus  to  the  godmothership  of  little  Paul,  in 
virtue  of  her  insignificance,  Miss  Tox  was  from  thai 
hour  chosen  and  appointed  to  office ;  and  Mr.  Dombey 
further  signified  his  pleasure  that  the  ceremony,  already 


78  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

long  delayed  isliuuld  take  place  without  further  postpone- 
ment. His  sL-^tor,  v'ho  had  been  far  from  anticipating  so 
signal  a  success,  withdrew  as  soon  as  she  could,  to  com- 
municate it  to  her  best  of  friends  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  was 
left  alone  in  his  library. 

There  was  anything  l)ut  solitude  in  the  nursery  ;  for 
Uiare,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  enjoying  a  social 
evening,  so  much  to  the  disgust  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper 
that  that  young  lady  embraced  every  opportunity  of 
making  wry  faces  behyid  the  door.  Her  feelings  \vei*e 
BO  much  excited  on  the  occasion,  that  she  foinid  it  indis- 
pensable to  afford  them  this  relief,  even  without  having 
the  comfort  of  any  audience  or  sympathy  whatever.  As 
the  knight-errants  of  old  relieved  their  minds  by  carving 
their  mistresses'  names  in  deserts  and  wildernesses,  and 
other  savage  places  where  there  was  no  probability  of 
there  ever  being  anybody  to  read  them,  so  did  Miss  Susan 
Nipper  curl  her  snub  nose  into  drawers  and  wardrobes, 
put  away  winks  of  disparagement  in  cupboards,  shed 
derisive  squints  into  stone  pitchers,  and  contradict  and 
call  names  out  in  the  passage. 

The  two  interlopers,  however,  blissfully  unconscious 
of  the  young  lady's  sentiments,  saw  hitle  Paul  safe 
through  all  the  stages  of  undressing,  airy  exercise,  sup- 
per and  bed ;  and  then  sat  down  to  tea  before  the  fire. 
The  two  children  now  lay,  through  the  good  offices  of 
Polly,  in  one  room  ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  ladies  were 
established  at  their  tea-table  that  happening  to  look  tow- 
HTds  the  little  beds,  they  thought  of  Florence. 

"  How  sound  she  sleeps  ! "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  Why,  you  know,  my  dear,  she  takes  a  good  deal  of 
exercise  in  the  course  of  the  day,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick, 
•'  playing  about  liitle  Paul  so  much." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  79 

"  She  is  a  curious  child,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  My  dear,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  low  voice  :  *  Her 
mama,  all  over  !  " 

"  In-deed  !  "  said  Miss  Tox.     "  Ah  dear  me  !  " 

A.  tone  of  most  extraordinary  compassion  Miss  Tox 
Baid  it  in,  though  she  had  no  distinct  idea  why,  except 
that  it  was  expected  of  her. 

"  Florence  will  never,  never,  never,  be  a  Dorabey," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  not  if  she  lives  to  be  a  thousand 
years  old." 

IMiss  Tox  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  was  again  full 
of  commiseration. 

"  I  quite  fret  and  worry  myself  about  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  a  sigh  of  modest  merit  "  I  really  don't  see 
wiiat  is  to  become  of  her  when  she  grows  older,  or  what 
position  she  is  to  take.  She  don't  gain  on  her  papa  in 
the  least.  How  can  one  expect  she  should,  when  she  is 
so  very  unlike  a  Dombey  ?  " 

Miss  Tox  looked  as  if  she  saw  no  way  out  of  such  a 
cogent  argument  as  that,  at  all. 

"  And  the  child,  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  deep 
confidence,  "  has  poor  Fanny's  nature.  She'll  never 
make  an  effort  in  after-life,  I'll  venture  to  say.  Never  I 
She'll  never  wind  and  twine  herself  about  her  papa's 
heart  like  " — 

"  Like  ths  'Vy  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"Like  the  ivy,"  Mrs.  Chick  assented.  "Never!  Sle'll 
never  glide  and  reptle  into  the  bosom  of  her  papa's  af^ 
feciions  like  —  the  "  — 

"  Startled  fawn  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  Like  the  startled  fawn,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Never ' 
Poor  Fanny  !     Yet  how  I  loved  her  !  " 

"  You  must  not  distress  j'ourself  my  dear,"  said  Miss 


80  DOMBET  AND  SOW. 

Tox,  in  a  soothing  voice.     "  Now,  really !    You  have  too 
much  feeling." 

"  We  have  all  our  faults,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  weeping 
Hiid  shaking  her  head.  "  I  dare  say  we  have.  I  nevei 
was  blind  to  hers.  I  never  said  I  was.  Far  from  it, 
Yet  how  I  loved  her ! " 

What  a  satisfaction  it  was  to  Mrs.  Chick  —  a  common 
place  piece  of  folly  enough,  compared  with  whom  hei 
gister-in-law  had  been  a  very  angel  of  womanly  intelli 
gence  and  gentleness  —  to  patronize  and  be  tender  to 
the  memory  of  that  lady :  in  exact  pursuance  of  her 
conduct  to  her  in  her  lifetime  :  and  to  thoroughly  believe 
lierself,  and  take  herself  in,  and  make  herself  uncom- 
monly comfortable  on  the  strength  of  her  toleration  ! 
"What  a  mighty  pleasant  virtue  toleration  should  be  when 
we  are  right,  to  be  so  very  pleasant  when  we  are  wrong, 
and  quite  unable  to  demonstrate  how  we  come  to  be  in- 
vested with  the  privilege  of  exercising  it ! 

Mrs.  Chick  was  yet  drying  her  eyes  and  shaking  her 
head,  when  Richards  made  bold  to  caution  her  that  Miss 
Florence  was  awake  and  sitting  in  her  bed.  She  had 
risen,  as  the  nurse  said,  and  the  lashes  of  her  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears.  But  no  one  saw  them  glistening  save 
Polly.  No  one  else  leant  over  her,  and  whispered 
Boothing  words  to  her,  or  was  near  enough  to  hear  the 
flutter  of  her  beating  heart. 

"  Oh  !  dear  nurse  !  "  said  the  child,  looking  earnestly 
up  in  her  face,  "  let  me  lie  by  my  brother ! " 

**  Why,  my  pet  ?  "  said  Richards. 

^  Oh !  I  think  he  loves  me,"  cried  the  child  wildly 
"  Let  me  lie  by  him.     Pray  do !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  interposed  with  some  motherly  words  aboat 
going  to  sleep  like  a  dear,  but  Florence  repeated  her 


DOMBEY   A.ND  SON.  81 

buppHcatlon,  wiih  a  frightened  look,  and  in  a  voice 
broken    by  sobs  and  tears. 

"  I'll  not  wake  him,"  she  said,  covering  her  face  and 
hanging  down  her  head.  "  I'll  only  touch  him  with  my 
hand,  and  go  to  sleep.  Oh,  pray,  pray,  let  me  lie  by  my 
brother,  to-night,  for  I  believe  he's  fond  of  me !" 

Richards  took  her  without  a  word,  and  carrying  her 
to  the  little  bed  in  which  the  infant  was  sleeping,  laid 
her  down  by  his  side.  She  crept  as  near  him  as  she 
could  without  disturbing  his  rest ;  and  stretching  out  one 
arm  so  that  it  timidly  embraced  his  neck,  and  hiding  her 
face  on  the  other,  over  which  her  damp  and  scattered 
hair  fell  loose,  lay  motionless. 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  said  Miss  Tox ;  "  she  has  been 
dreaming,  I  dare  say." 

Tliis  trivial  incident  had  so  inlerrupted  the  current 
of  conversation,  that  it  was  difficult  of  resumption  ;  and 
Mrs.  Chick  moreover  had  been  so  affected  by  the  con- 
templation of  her  own  tolerant  nature,  that  she^was  not 
in  spirits.  The  two  friends  accordingly  soon  made  an 
end  of  their  tea,  and  a  servant  was  despatched  to  fetch 
a  hackney  cabriolet  for  Miss  Tox.  Miss  Tox  had  great 
experience  in  hackney  cabs,  and  her  starting  in  one  waa 
generally  a  work  of  time,  as  she  was  systematic  in  the 
pi'eparatory  arrangements. 

"  Have  the  goodness,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said 
Sliss  Tox,  "  first  of  all  to  carry  out  a  pen  and  ink  and 
take  his  number  legibly." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"Then,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
'  have  the  goodness  to  turn  the  cushion.  Which,"  said 
Miss  Tox  apart  to  Mrs.  Chick,  "  is  generally  damp,  my 
dear." 

VOL.   I.  6 


.82  DOMBET  AND  SOX. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  I'll  trouble  you  also,  if  jou  please,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
•*  with  this  card  and  this  shilling.  He's  to  drive  to  the 
card,  and  is  to  understand  that  he  will  not  on  any 
account  have  more  than  the  shilling." 

"  No,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

*'  And  —  I'm  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble, 
Towlinson,"  —  said  Miss  Tox,  looking  at  him  pensively. 

"Not  at  all,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"Mention  to  the  man,  then,  if  you  please,  Towlinson," 
said  Miss  Tox,  "  that  the  lady's  uncle  is  a  magistrate, 
and  that  if  he  gives  her  any  of  his  impertinence  he  will 
be  punished  terribly.  You  can  pretend  to  say  that,  if 
you  please,  Towlinson,  in  a  friendly  way,  and  because 
you  know  it  was  done  to  another  man,  who  died." 

"  Certainly,  miss,"' said  Towlinson. 

"  And  now  good-night  to  my  sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  god 
son,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  soft  shower  of  kisses  at  each 
repetition  of  the  adjective  ;  "  and  Louisa,  my  dear  friend, 
promise  me  to  take  a  little  something  warm  before  you 
go  to  bed,  and  not  to  distress  yourself!" 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  Nipper,  the  black- 
eyed,  who  looked  on  steadfastly,  contained  hei"self  at  this 
crisis,  and,  until  the  subsequent  departure  of  Mrs.  Chick. 
But  the  nursery  being  at  length  free  of  visitors,  she 
made  herself  some  recompense  for  her  late  restraint. 

"  You  might  keep  me  in  a  straight-waistcoat  for  six 
weeks,"  said  Nipper,  "  and  when  I  got  it  off  I'd  only  be 
more  aggravated,  who  ever  heard  the  like  of  them  two 
G 1  iffins,  Mrs.  Richards  ?  " 

"And  then  to  talk  of  having  been  dreaming,  poor 
dear!"  said  YoWy. 

"Oh  you  beauties  I"  cried  Susan  Nipper,  affecting  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  88 

salute  llitj  door  by  which  the  ladies  had  departed. 
"  Never  be  a  Dombey,  won't  !>he,  it's  to  be  hoped  she 
won't,  we  don't  want  any  more  such,  one's  enough." 

"  Don't  wake  the  children,  Susan  dear,"  said  Polly. 

"  I'm  very  much  beholden  to  you,  Mrs.  Richards," 
said  Susan,  wlio  was  not  by  any  means  discriminating  iu 
her  wi-aih,  '•  and  really  feel  it  as  a  honor  to  receive 
your  commands,  being  a  black  slave  and  a  mulotter. 
Mrs.  Richards,  if  there's  any  other  orders  you  can  give 
me,  j)ray  mention  'em." 

"  Nonsense  ;  orders,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  !  bless  jour  heart,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Susan, 
•'  temporaries  always  orders  permanencies  here,  didn'l 
you  know  that,  why  wherever  was  you  born,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards ?  But  wherever  you  was  born,  INIrs.  Richards," 
pursued  Spitfire,  shaking  her  head  resolutely^  "  and 
whenever,  and  however  (which  is  best  known  to  your- 
self), you  may  bear  in  mind,  please,  that  it's  one  thing 
to  give  orders,  and  quite  another  thing  to  take  'em.  A 
person  may  tell  a  person  to  dive  off  a  bridge  head  fore- 
most into  five-and-forty  feet  of  water,  Mrs.  Richards,  but 
a  person  may  be  very  far  from  diving." 

"  There  n6w,"  said  Polly,  "  you're  angry  because 
you're  ft  good  little  thing,  and  fond  of  Miss  Florence ; 
and  yet  you  turn  round  on  me,  because  there's  nobody 
else." 

"  It's  very  easy  for  some  to  keep  their  tempers,  and 
be  soft-spoken,  Mrs.  Richards,"  returned  Susan,  slightly 
mollified,  "  when  their  child's  made  as  much  of  as  a 
prince,  and  is  petted  and  patted  till  it  wishes  its  friends 
Girther,  but  when  a  sweet  young  pretty  innocent,  that 
never  ought  to  have  a  cross  word  spoken  to  or  of  it,  is 
run  down,  the  case  is  very  different  indeed.     My  good- 


84  DoarBET  and  son. 

ness  gracious  lue,  Miss  Fley,  you  naughty,  sinful  child, 
if  you  don't  .slvpt  your  eyes  this  minute,  I'll  call  in  them 
hobgoblins  that  lives  in  the  cock-loft  to  come  and  eat  yoa 
up  alive  !  " 

Here  Miss  Nipper  made  a  horrible  lowing,  supjiosed 
to  issue  from  a  conscientious  goblin  of  the  bull  species, 
impatient  to  discharge  the  severe  duty  of  his  position. 
Having  further  composed  her  young  charge  by  covering 
her  head  with  the  bedclothes,  and  making  three  or  four 
angry  dabs  at  the  pillow,  she  folded  her  arras,  and 
screwed  up  her  mouth,  and  sat  looking  at  the  fire  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening. 

Though  little  Paul  was  said,  in  nursery  phrase,  "  to 
take  a  deal  of  notice  for  his  age,"  he  took  as  little  notice 
of  all  this  as  of  the  preparations  for  his  christening  on 
the  next  day  but  one ;  which  nevertheless  went  on  about 
him,  as  to  his  personal  apparel,  and  that  of  his  sister  and 
the  two  nurses,  with  great  activity.  Neither  did  he,  on 
the  arrival  of  the  appointed  morning,  show  any  sense  of 
its  importance ;  being,  on  the  contrary,  unusually  in- 
clined to  sleep,  and  unusually  inclined  to  take  it  ill  in  his 
attendants  that  they  dressed  him  to  go  out. 

It  happened  to  be  an  iron-gray  autumnal  day,  with  a 
Bhrewd  east  wind  blowing  —  a  day  in  keeping  with  the 
proceedings.  Mr.  Dombey  represented  in  himself  the 
wind,  the  shade,  and  the  autumn  of  the  christening.  He 
Btood  in  his  library  to  receive  the  company,  as  hard  and 
cold  as  the  weather ;  and  when  he  looked  out  through 
the  glass  room,  at  the  trees  in  the  little  garden,  their 
brown  and  yellow  leaves  came  fluttering  down,  as  if  he 
blighted  them. 

Ugh  !  They  were  black,  cold  rooms ;  and  seemed  to 
be  in  mourninor,  like  the  inmates  of  the   house.     Th« 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  85 

t>ooks  precisely  matched  as  to  size,  and  drawn  up  in  line, 
like  boldiers,  looked  in  their  cold,  haid,  slippery  uniforms, 
as  ii'  they  had  but  one  idea  among  them,  and  that  was  a 
freezer.  The  bookcase,  glazed  and  locked,  repudiated 
all  familiarities.  Mr.  Pitt,  in  bronze  on  the  top,  with  no 
trace  of  his  celestial  origin  about  him,  guarded  the  un- 
attainable treasure  like  an  enchanted  Moor.  A  dusty 
urn  at  each  high  corner,  dug  up  from  an  ancient  tomb, 
preached  desolation  and  decay,  as  from  two  pulpits ;  and 
the  chimney-glass,  reflecting  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  por- 
trait at  one  blow,  seemed  fraught  with  melancholy  medi- 
tations. 

The  stiff  and  stark  fire-irons  appeared  to  claim  a 
nearer  relationship  than  anything  else  there  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  his  buttoned  coat,  his  white  cravat,  his 
heavy  gold  watch-chain,  and  his  creaking  boots.  But 
this  Mas  before  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chick,  his 
lawful  relatives,  who  soon  presented  themselves. 

'*  My  dear  Paul,"  Mrs.  Chick  murmured,  as  she  em- 
braced him,  "  the  beginning,  I  hope,  of  many  joyful 
days  ! " 

"  Thank  you,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  grimly. 
"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  John  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  said  Chick. 

He  gave  Mr.  Dombey  his  hand,  as  if  he  feared  it 
might  electrify  him.  Mr.  Dombey  took  it  as  if  it  were 
a  fish,  or  seaweed,  or  some  such  clammy  substance,  and 
immediately  returned  it  to  him  with  exalted  politeness. 

"  Perhaps,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  slightly  turning 
his  head  in  his  cravat,  as  if  it  were  a  socket,  "  you  would 
have  preferred  a  fire  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ray  dear  Paul,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  had 
much  ado  to  keep  her  teeth  from  chattering ;  "  not  for 


^6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  not  sensible 
\(  any  chill  ?  " 

Mr.  John,  who  had  already  got  both  his  hands  in  hia 
pockets  over  the  wrists,  and  was  on  the  very  threshold 
uf  that  same  canine  chorus  which  had  given  Mrs.  Chick 
HO  much  offence  on  a  former  occasion,  protested  that  be 
•was  perfuclly  comfortable. 

He  added  in  a  low  voice,  "  With  my  tiddle  tol  toor 
rul "  —  when  he  was  providentially  stopped  by  Towlin- 
son,  who  announced : 

«  Miss  Tox  ! " 

And  enter  that  fair  enslaver,  with  a  blue  nose  and  in- 
describably frosty  face,  referable  to  her  being  very  thin- 
ly clad  in  a  maze  of  fluttering  odds  and  ends,  to  do 
honor  to  the  ceremony. 

"  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Tox  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Miss  Tox  in  the  midst  of  her  spreading  gauzes,  went 
down  altogether  like  an  opera-glass  shutting  up  ;  she 
eourtesied  so  low,  in  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
advancing  a  step  or  two  to  meet  her. 

"  I  can  never  forget  this  occasion,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
softly.  "  'Tis  impossible.  My  dear  Louisa,  I  can  hard- 
ly believe  the  evidence  of  my  senses." 

If  Miss  Tox  could  believe  the  evidence  of  one  of  her 
senses,  it  was  a  very  cold  day.  That  was  quite  clear. 
She  took  an  early  opportunity  of  promoting  the  circu- 
lation in  the  tip  of  her  nose  by  secretly  chafing  it  with 
her  pocket-handkerchief,  lest,  by  its  very  low  temper- 
Bture,  it  should  disagreeably  astonish  the  baby  when  she 
came  to  kiss  it. 

The  baby  soon  appeared,  carried  in  _great  gfory  by 
Richards ;  while  Florence,  in  custody  of  that  active 
young  constable,  Susan  Nipper,  brought   up    the  rear 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  87 

Though  (he  whole  nursery  party  were  dressed  by  this 
lime  in  lighter  mourning  than  at  first,  there  was  enough 
in  the  ap^jearance  of  the  bereaved  children  to  make  the 
day  no  brighter.  The  baby  too  —  it  might  have  been 
Bliss  Tox's  nose  —  began  to  cry.  Thereby,  as  it  hap- 
pened, preventing  Mr.  Chick  from  the  awkward  fMlfil- 
ment  of  a  very  honest  purpose  he  had ;  which  wa-^,  t<» 
make  much  of  Florence.  For  this  gentleman,  insensible 
to  the  superior  claims  of  a  perfect  Dombey  (perhaps  on 
account  of  having  the  honor  to  be  united  to  u  Dombey 
himself,  and  being  familiar  with  excellence),  really  liked 
her,  and  showed  that  he  liked  her,  and  was  about  to 
show  it  in  his  own  way  now,  when  Paul  cried,  and  big 
helpmate  stopped  him  short. 

"  Now  Florence  child  !  "  said  her  aunt,  briskly,  "  what 
are  you  doing,  love  ?  Show  yourself  to  him.  Engage 
his  attention,  my  dear  !  " 

The  atmosphere  became,  or  might  have  become,  colder 
and  colder,  when  Mr.  Dombey  stood  fiigidly  watching 
his  little  daughter,  who,  clapping  her  hands,  and  stand- 
ing on  tiptoe  before  the  throne  of  his  son  and  heir,  lured 
him  to  bend  down  from  his  high  estate,  and  look  at  her. 
Some  honest  act  of  Richards's  may  have  aided  the  effect, 
but  he  did  look  down,  and  held  his  peace.  As  his  sister 
hid  behind  her  nurse,  he  followed  her  with  his  eyes ; 
nnd  when  she  peeped  out  with  a  merry  cry  to  him,  he 
sprang  up  and  crowed  lustily  —  laughing  outright  when 
fihe  ran  in  upon  him  ;  and  seeming  to  fondle  her  curls 
with  his  tiny  hands,  while  she  smothered  him  with  kisses. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey  pleased  to  see  this  ?  He  testified 
uo  pleasure  by  the  relaxation  of  a  nerve  ;  but  outward 
tokens  of  any  kind  of  feeling  were,  unusual  with  him. 
If  any  sunbeam  stole  into  the  ""oni  to  light  the  children 


88  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

at  their  play,  if  never  reached  his  face.  He  lookcAJ  on 
BO  fixedly  and  coldly,  that  the  warm  light  vanished  even 
from  the  laughing  eyes  of  little  Florence,  when,  at  last, 
ihcy  happened  to  meet  his. 

It  was  a  dull,  gray,  autumn  day  indeed,  and  in  a  min- 
ute's pause  and  silence  that  took  place,  the  leaves  fell 
sorrowfully. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  referring  to  his  watoh. 
and  assuming  his  hat  and  gloves.  "  Take  my  sister,  if 
you  please :  my  arm  to-day  is  Miss  Tox's.  You  had  better 
go  first  with  Master  Paul,  Richards.     Be  very  careful." 

In  Mr.  Dorabey's  carriage,  Dombey  and  Son,  Misa 
Tox,  Mrs.  Cliick,  Richards,  and  Florence.  In  a  little 
carriage  following  it,  Susan  Nipper  and  the  owner  Mr. 
Cliick.  Susan  looking  out  of  window,  without  intermis- 
sion, as  a  relief  from  the  embarrassment  of  confronting 
the  large  face  of  that  gentleman,  and  thinking  whenever 
anything  rattled  that  he  was  putting  up  in  paper  an  ap- 
propriate pecuniary  compliment  for  herself. 

Once  upon  the  road  to  church,  Mr.  Dombey  clapped 
his  hands  for  the  amusement  of  his  son.  At  wtiich  in- 
stance of  parental  enthusiasm  Miss  Tox  was  enchanted. 
]Jut  exclusive  of  this  incident,  the  chief  difference  be- 
tween the  christening  party  and  a  party  in  a  mourning 
coach,  consisted  in  the  colors  of  the  carriage  and  horses. 

Arrived  at  the  church  steps,  they  were  received  by  a 
I*ortentous  beadle.  Mr.  Dombey  dismounted  first  to  help 
the  ladies  out,  and  standing  near  him  at  the  church-door, 
looked  like  another  beadle.  A  beadle  less  gorgeous,  but 
more  dreadful ;  the  beadle  of  private  life  :  the  beadle  of 
our  business  and  our  bosoms. 

Miss  Tox's  hand  trembled  as  she  slipped  it  through 
Mr.  Dombey's  ai"m,  and  felt   herself  escorted   up   th6 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ^         89 

Steps,  preceded  by  a  cocked  hat  and  a  Babylonian  collar. 
It  seemed  for  a  moment  like  that  other  solemn  institutioa. 
•*  Wilt  thou  have  this  man,  Lucretia  ?  "  "  Yes,  I  will." 
"  Please  to  bring  the  child  in  quick  out  of  the  aif 
there,"  whispered  the  beadle,  holding  open  the  innet 
door  of  the  church. 

Little  Paul  might  have  asked  with  Hamlet  "  into  my 
grave  ?  "  so  chill  and  earthy  was  the  place.  The  tall 
shrouded  pulpit  and  reading-desk ;  the  dreary  perspeo* 
tive  of  empty  pews  stretching  away  under  the  galleries, 
and  empty  benches  mounting  to  the  roof  and  lost  in  the 
shadow  of  the  great  grim  organ ;  the  dusty  matting  and 
cold  stone  slabs ;  the  grisly  free  seats  in  the  aisles  ;  and 
the  damp  corner  by  the  bell-rope,  where  the  black  tres- 
Bels  used  for  funerals  were  stowed  away,  along  with 
some  shovels  and  baskets,  and  a  coil  or  two  of  deadly- 
looking  rope  ;  the  strange,  unusual,  uncomfortable  smell, 
and  the  cadaverous  light;  were  all  in  unison.  It  Ava* 
a  cold  and  dismal  scene. 

"  There's  a  wedding  just  on,  sir,"  said  the  beadle, 
"but  it'll  be  over  directly,  if  you'll  walk  into  the  westry 
here." 

Before  he  turned  again  to  lead  the  way,  he  gave  Mr. 
Dombey  a  bow  and  a  half  smile  of  recognition,  importing 
that  he  (the  beadle)  remembered  to  have  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  attending  on  him  when  he  buried  his  wife,  and 
hoped  he  had  enjoyed  himself  since. 

The  very  wedding  looked  dismal  as  they  passed  ir 
front  of  the  altar.  The  bride  was  too  old  and  the  bride- 
Sjroom  too  young,  and  a  superannuated  beau  with  on«i 
eye  and  an  eyeglass  stuck  in  its  blank  companion,  was 
giving  away  the  lady,  while  the  friends  were  shivering. 
In  the  vestry  the  fire  was  smoking;  and  an  over-aged 


9C  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

and  over-worked  and  under-paid  attorney's  clerk,  "  raak- 
ing  a  search,"  was  running  his  forefinger  down  the  parch 
ment  pages  of  an  immense  register  (one  of  a  long  series 
of  similar  volumes)  gorged  with  burials.  Over  the  fire- 
place was  a  ground-plan  of  the  vaults  underneath  the 
church ;  and  Mr.  Chick,  skimming  the  literary  portion 
of  it  aloud,  by  way  of  enlivening  the  company,  read  the 
reference  to  Mrs.  Dombey's  tomb  in  full,  before  he  could 
stop  himself. 

After  another  cold  interval,  a  wheezy  little  pew- 
opener  afflicted  with  an  asthma,  appropriate  to  the 
church-yard,  if  not  to  the  church,  summoned  them  to 
the  font.  Here  tliey  waited  some  little  time  while  the 
marriage -party  enrolled  themselves;  and  meanwhile  the 
wheezy  little  pew-opener  —  partly  in  consequence  of  her 
infirmity,  and  partly  that  the  marriage-party  might  not 
forget  her  —  went  about  the  building  coughing  like  a 
grampus. 

Presently  the  clerk  (the  only  cheerful-looking  object 
there,  and  he  was  an  undertaker)  came  up  with  a  jug  of 
warm  water,  and  said  something,  as  he  poured  it  into  the 
font,  about  taking  the  chill  off;  which  millions  of  gallons 
boiling  hot  .could  not  have  done  for  the  occjision.  Then 
the  clergyman,  an  amiable  and  mild-looking  young  curate, 
but  obviously  afraid  of  the  baby,  appeared  like  the  princi- 
pal character  in  a  ghost-story,  "  a  tall  figure  all  in  white ;" 
at  sight  of  whom  Paul  rent  the  air  with  his  cries,  and 
never  left  off  again  till  he  was  taken  out  black  in  the 
fiice. 

Even  when  that  event  had  happened,  to  the  great  re- 
lief of  everybody,  he  was  heard  under  the  portico,  during 
the  rest  of  the  ceremony,  now  fainter,  now  louder,  now 
hushed,  now  bursting  forth  again  with  an   inepressiblfl 


DOMBEY  AXD   SON.  91 

sense  of  his  wrongs.  This  so  distracted  the  attention  of 
the  two  hidies,  that  Mrs.  Chick  was  constantly  deploying 
into  the  centre  aisle,  to  send  out  messaajes  by  the  pew- 
opener,  while  Miss  Tox  kept  her  prayer-book  open  at 
the  Gunpowder  Plot,  and  occasionally  read  responses 
from  that  service. 

Diu-ing  the  whole  of  these  proceedings,  Mr.  Dorabey 
remained  as  impassive  and  gentlemanly  as  ever,  and 
perhaps  assisted  in  making  it  so  cold,  that  the  young 
curate  smoked  at  the  mouth  as  he  read.  Tiie  only  time 
that  he  unbent  his  visage  in  the  least,  was  when  the 
clergyman,  in  delivering  (very  unaffectedly  and  simply) 
the  closing  exhortation,  relative  to  the  future  examina- 
tion of  the  child  by  the  spon-ors,  happened  to  rest  his 
eye  on  Mr.  Chick  ;  and  then  INIr.  Dombey  might  have 
been  seen  to  express  by  a  majestic  look,  that  he  would 
like  to  catch  him  at  it. 

It  might  have  been  well  for  Mr.  Dombey,  if  he  had 
thought  of  his  own  dignity  a  little  less ;  and  had  thought 
of  the  great  origin  and  purpose  of  the  ceremony  in  which 
he  took  so  formal  and  so  stiff*  a  part,  a  little  more.  His 
arrogance  contrasted  strangely  with  its  history. 

When  it  was  all  over,  he  again  gave  his  arm  to  Misa 
Tox,  and  conducted  her  to  the  vestry,  where  he  informed 
the  clergyman  how  much  pleasure  it  would  have  given 
him  to  have  solicited  the  honor  of  his  company  at  dinner, 
but  for  the  unfortunate  state  of  his  household  affairs. 
The  register  signed,  and  the  fees  paid,  and  the  pevsr- 
upeiier  (whose  cough  was  very  bad  again)  remembered, 
Hnd  the  beadle  gratified,  and  the  sexton  (who  was  acci- 
dentally on  the  door-steps,  looking  with  great  interest  at 
the  weather)  not  forgotten,  they  got  into  the  carriage 
tgain,  and  drove  home  in   the  same  bleak  fellowship. 


82  DOMBEY  AND  SON.  • 

There  they  found  Mr.  Pitt  turning  up  his  nose  at  a 
cold  collation,  set  forth  in  a  cold  pomp  of  glass  and  sil- 
ver, and  looking  more  like  a  dead  dinner  lying  in  state 
than  a  social  refreshment.  On  their  arrival.  Miss  Tox 
produced  a  rang  for  her  godson,  and  Mr.  Chick  a  knife 
and  fork  and  spoon  in  a  case.  Mr.  Dombey  also  pro- 
duced a  bracelet  for  Miss  Tox  ;  and,  on  the  receipt  of 
Ihis  token,  Miss  Tox  was  tenderly  affected. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  will  you  take  the 
bottom  of  the  table,  if  you  please.  What  have  you  got 
there,  Mr.  John?" 

"  I  have  got  a  cold  fillet  of  veal  here,  sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Chick,  rubbing  his  numbed  hands  hard  together.  "  What 
have  you  got  there,  sir  ?  " 

"  This,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  is  some  cold  prepa- 
ration of  calf's  head,  I  think.  I  see  cold  fowls  —  h»m 
—  patties  —  salad  —  lobster.  Miss  Tox  will  do  me  the 
honor  of  taking  some  wine  ?     Champagne  to  Miss  Tox." 

There  was  a  toothache  in  everything.  The  wine  was 
60  bitter  cold  that  it  forced  a  little  scream  from  Miss 
Tox,  which  she  had  great  difficulty  in  turning  into  a 
"  Hem  ! "  The  veal  had  come  from  such  an  airy  pan- 
try, that  the  first  taste  of  it  had  struck  a  sensation  as  of 
cold  lead  to  Mr.  Chick's  extremities.  Mr.  Dombey  alone 
remained  unmoved.  He  might  have  been  hung  up  for 
Bale  at  a  Russian  fair  as  a  specimen  of  a  frozen  gentle- 
man. 

The  prevailing  influence  was  too  much  even  for  his 
sister.  She  made  no  effort  at  flattery  or  small- talk,  and 
directed  all  her  efforts  to  looking  as  warm  as  she  could. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  making  a  desperate 
plunge,  after  a  long  silence,  and  filling  a  glass  of  sherry ; 
"  I  shall  drink  tliis,  if  you'll  allow  me,  sir,  to  little  Paul." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  98 

"  Bless  hlra  I  "  murmured  Miss  Tox,  taking  a  sip  of 
wine. 

"  Dear  little  Dombey  !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Chick. 

*'  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  severe  gravity 
"  my  son  would  feel  and  express  himself  obliged  to  you 
I  have  no  doubt,  if  he  could  appreciate  the  favor  yoi 
have  done  him.  He  will  prove,  in  time  to  come,  I  trust 
equal  to  any  responsibility  that  the  obliging  disposition 
of  his  relations  and  friends,  in  private,  or  the  oneroua 
nature  of  our  position,  in  public,  may  impose  upon  him." 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  admitting  of  nothing 
»nore,  Mr.  Chick  relapsed  into  low  spirits  and  silence. 
Not  so  Miss  Tox,  who,  having  listened  to  Mr.  Dombey 
with  even  a  more  emphatic  attention  than  usual,  and  with 
a  more  expressive  tendency  of  her  head  to  one  side,  now 
leant  across  the  table,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Chick  softly :  — 

"  Louisa ! " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Onerous  nature  of  our  position  in  public  may  —  I 
have  forgotten  the  exact  term." 

"  Expose  him  to,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "  I  think 
not.  It  was  more  rounded  and  flowing.  Obliging  dis- 
position of  relations  and  friends  in  private,  or  onerous 
nature  of  position  in  public  —  may  —  impose  upon 
him  ?  " 

"  Impose  upon  him,  to  be  sure,"   said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox  struck  her  delicate  hands  together  lightly, 
in  triumph  ;  and  added,  casting  up  her  eyes,  "  eloquence 
indeed ! " 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  mean  while,  had  issued  orders  for 
the  attendance  of  Richards,  who  now  entered  courtesying, 
but  without  the  baby ;  Paul  being  asleep  after  the  fa- 


J4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tigues  of  the  morning.  Mr.  Dombey,  having  deliveied 
B  glass  of  wine  to  this  vassal,  addressed  her  in  the  follow- 
ing words  :  Miss  Tox  previously  settling  her  head  on  ono 
Bide,  and  making  other  little  arrangements  for  engrav 
ing  them  on  her  heart. 

"  J^uring  the  six  months  or  so,  Richards,  which  have 
w;en  you  an  inmate  of  this  house,  you  have  done  your 
duty.  Desiring  to  connect  some  little  service  to  you 
with  this  occasion,  I  considered  how  1  could  best  eflect 
that  object,  and  I  also  advised  with  my  sister  Mrs. "  — 

"  Chick,"  interposed  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

"  Oh,  hush  if  you  please!  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  I  was  about  to  say  to  you,  Riciiards,"  resumed  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  an  appalling  glance  at  Mr.  John,  "  that 
I  was  further  assisted  in  my  decision,  by  the  recoUee- 
tion  of  a  conversation  I  held  with  your  husband  in 
this  room,  on  the  occasion  of  your  being  hired,  when 
he  disclosed  to  me  the  melancholy  fact  that  your  family, 
himself  at  the  head,  were  sunk  and  steeped  in  igno- 
rance." 

Richards  quailed  under  the  magnificence  of  the  re- 
proof. 

''  I  am  far  from  being  friendly,"  pursued  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "to  what  is  called  by  persons  of  levelling  senti- 
ments, general  education.  But  it  is  necessary  that  the 
inferior  classes  should  continue  to  be  taught  to  kn»>w 
their  position,  and  to  conduct  themselves  properly.  So 
far  I  approve  of  schools.  Having  the  power  of  nomi« 
Bating  a  child  on  the  foundation  of  an  ancient  establish- 
ment, called  (from  a  worshipful  company)  the  Charitablo 
Grinders ;  where  not  only  is  a  wholesome  education 
bestowed  upon  the  scholars,  but  where  a  dress  and  badge 
is  likewise  provided  for  them ;  I  have  (first  coramunicat- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  96 

b^g,  througli  Mrs.  Chick,  with  your  family)  norainated 
your  eldest  sjn  to  an  existing  vacancy;  and  he  has  this 
day,  I  arn  informed,  assumed  the  habir.  The  number 
of  her  son,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  to  his 
sister  and  speaking  of  the  child  as  if  he  were  a  hackney- 
coach,  "is  one  hundred  and  forty-seven.  Louisa,  you 
can  tell  her." 

"  One  hundred  and  forty-seven,"  said  Mi-s.  Cliick. 
"The  dress,  Richards,  is  a  nice,  warm,  blue  baize  tailed 
poat  and  cap,  turned  up  with  orange-colored  binding ; 
red  worsted  stockings;  and  very  strong  leather  small- 
clothes. One  might  wear  the  articles  one's  self,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  enthusiasm,  "  and  be  grateful." 

"  There,  Kichards !  "  said  Miss  Tox.  "  >low,  indeed, 
you  may  be  proud.     The  Charitable  Grinders ! " 

'*  I  am  sure  I  am  very  much  obliged,  sir,"  returned 
Richards  faintly,  "and  take  it  very  kind  that  you  should 
remember  my  little  ones."  At  the  same  time  a  vision 
of  Biler  as  a  Charitable  Grinder,  with  his  very  small 
If'gs  encased  in  the  serviceable  clothing  described  by 
Mrs.  Chick,  swam  before  Richards's  eyes,  and  made 
them  water. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  have  so  much  feeling, 
Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  It  makes  one  almost  hope,  it  really  does,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  who  prided  herself  on  taking  trustful  views  of 
human  nature,  "  that  there  may  yet  be  some  faint  spark 
of  gratitude  and  right  feeling  in  the  world." 

Richards  deferred  to  these  compliments  by  courtesy- 
Ing  and  murmuring  her  thanks ;  but  finding  it  quite 
Impossible  to  recover  her  spirits  from  the  disorder  into 
^hich  they  had  been  thrown  by  the  image  of  her  !OD 
\n  hw   precocious   nether  garments,  she   gradually  np- 


56  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

proached  the  door  and  was  heartily  relieved  to  escape 
by  it. 

Such  temporary  indications  of  a  partial  thaw  that  had 
appeared  with  her,  vanished  with  her;  and  the  frost 
Bet  in  again,  as  cold  and  hard  as  ever.  Mr.  Chick 
was  twice  heard  to  hum  a  tune  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table,  but  on  both  occasions  it  was  a  fragment  of  the 
Dead  March  in  Saul.  The  party  seemed  tc  get  colder 
and  colder,  and  to  be  gradually  resolving  itself  into  a 
congealed  and  solid  state,  like  the  collation  round  which 
it  was  assembled.  At  length  Mrs.  Chick  looked  at 
Miss  Tox,  and  Miss  Tox  returned  the  look,  and  they 
both  rose  and  said  it  was  really  time  to  go.  Mr. 
Dombey  receiving  this  aQpouncement  with  perfect  equa- 
nimity, they  took  leave  of  that  gentleman,  and  pres- 
ently departed  under  the  protection  of  Mr.  Chick ;  who, 
when  they  had  turned  their  backs  upon  the  house  and 
left  its  master  in  his  usual  solitary  state,  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  threw  himself  back  in  the  carriage,  and 
whistled  "  With  a  hey  ho  chevy  ! "  all  through  ;  con- 
veying into  his  face  as  he  did  so,  an  exjiression  of  such 
gloomy  and  terrible  defiance,  that  Mrs.  Cliick  dared  not 
protest,  or  in  any  way  molest  him. 

Richards,  though  she  had  little  Paul  on  her  lap,  could 
not  forget  her  own  first-born.  She  felt  it  was  ungrate* 
ful ;  but  the  influence  of  the  day  fell  even  on  the 
Charitable  Grinders,  and  she  could  hardly  help  regard- 
ing his  pewter  badge,  number  one  hundred  and  forty- 
seven,  as,  somehow,  a  part  of  its  formality  and  sternness 
She  spoke,  too,  in  the  nursery,  of  his  "  blessed  legs," 
and  was  again  troubled  by  his  spectre  in  uniform. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  wouldn't  give,"  said  Polly,  "  ia 
see  the  poor  little  dear  before  he  gets  used  to  'em." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ^7 

"  Why,  ll/en,  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Richards,"  retortecl 
Nipper,  who  had  been  admitted  to  her  confidence,  "  see 
him  and  make  your  mind  easy." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  wouldn't  ho,  Mrs.  Richards ! "  retorted  Nip- 
per,  "  he'd  like  it  very  much,  I  think,  when  he  was 
asked." 

"  You  wouldn't  ask  him,  I  suppose,  at  all  ?  "  said 
Polly. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Richards,  quite  contrairy,"  returned  Susan, 
"  and  them  two  inspectors  Tox  and  Chick,  not  intend- 
ing to  be  on  duty  to-morrow,  as  1  heard  'em  say,  me 
and  Miss  Floy  will  go  along  with  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  welcome,  Mrs.  Richards,  if  you  like,  for  we 
may  as  well  walk  there  as  up  and  down  a  street,  and 
better  too." 

Polly  rejected  the  idea  pretty  stoutly  at  first ;  but 
by  little  and  little  she  began  to  entertain  it,  as  she  enter- 
tained more  and  more  distinctly  the  forbidden  |>ictures 
of  her  children,  and  her  own  home.  At  leiiglli,  nrgii- 
nig  that  there  could  be  no  great  harm  in  calling  for 
a  moment  at  the  door,  she  yielded  to  the  Nipi)er  j)rop- 
osition. 

The  matter  being  settled  thus,  little  Paul  began  to 
cry  most  piteously,  as  if  he  had  a  foreboding  that  no 
gtx)d  would  come  of  it. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  child  ? "  asked  Susan. 

"  lie's  cold,  I  think,"  said  Polly,  walking  with  hira 
t    and  fro,  and  hushing  him. 

It  was  a  bleak  autumnal  afternoon  indeed;  and  aa 
she  walked,  and  hushed,  and,  glancing  through  the 
dreary  windows,  pressed  the  little  fellow  closer  to  h^ 
breast,  the  withered  leaves  came  showering  down. 


;^8  DOILBEY   ASD  809. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Paul's  second  DEruivATiox. 

POLLI  was  beset  by  so  many  misgivings  in  the  mor:- 
ing,  that  but  for  the  incessant  promptings  of  her  black- 
eyed  companion,  she  would  have  abandoned  all  thoughts 
of  the  expedition,  and  formally  petitioned  for  leave  to 
piee  number  one  hundred  and  forty-seven  undei  the  awful 
ghadow  of  Mr.  Dombey's  roof.  But  Susan  who  was 
personally  disposed  in  favor  of  the  excursion,  and  who 
(like  Tony  Lumpkin),  if  she  could  bear  the  disappoint- 
ments of  other  people  with  tolerable  fortitude,  could  not 
abide  to  disappoint  herself,  threw  so  many  ingenious 
doubts  in  the  way  of  this  second  thought,  and  stimulated 
the  original  intention  with  so  many  ingenious  arguments, 
that  almost  as  soon  as  Mr.  Dombey's  stately  back  was 
turned,  and  that  gentleman  was  pursuing  his  daily  road 
towards  the  city,  his  unconscious  son  was  on  his  way  to 
Staggs's  Gardens. 

This  euphonious  locality  was  situated  in  a  subuih. 
known  by  the  inhabitants  of  Staggs's  Gardens  by  the 
Dame  of  Camberling  Town  ;  a  designation  which  the 
Strangers'  Map  of  London,  as  printed  (with  a  view  to 
jileasant  and  commodious  reference)  on  pocket-handker- 
nhiefs,  condenses,  with  some  show  of  reason,  into  Camdeti 
Town.  Hither  the  two  nurses  bent  their  steps,  accom- 
panied by  their  charges ;   Richards  carrying    Paul,  of 


DOMBEl    4ND   SON.  99 

course,  and  Susan  leading  little  Florence  by  the  hand, 
and  giving  her  such  jerks  and  pokes  from  time  to  time, 
as  she  considered  it  wholesome  to  administer. 

The  iirst  shock  of  a  great  earthquake  had,  just  at 
iliat  period,  rent  the  whole  neighborhood  to  its  centre. 
Traces  of  its  course  were  visible  on  every  side.  Houses 
were  knocked  down  ;  streets  broken  througli  and  stop- 
ped ;  deep  pits  and  trenches  dug  in  the  ground ;  enor- 
mous heaps  of  earth  and  clay  thrown  up;  buildings 
that  were  undermined  and  shaking,  propped  by  great 
beams  of  wood.  Here,  a  chaos  of  carts,  overthrown 
and  jumbled  together,  lay  topsy-turvy  at  the  bottom  of 
a  steep  unnatural  hill ;  there,  confused  treasures  of  iron 
soaked  and  rusted  in  something  that  had  accidentally 
become  a  pond.  Everywhere  were  bridges  that  led 
nowhere ;  thoroughfares  that  were  wholly  impassable ; 
Babel  towers  of  chimneys,  wanting  half  their  height ; 
temporary  wooden  houses  and  enclosures,  in  the  most 
unlikely  situations ;  carcases  of  ragged  tenements,  and 
fragments  of  unfinished  walls  and  arches,  and  piles  of 
scaffolding,  and  wildernesses  of  bricks,  and  giant  forms 
of  cranes,  and  tripods  straddling  above  nothing.  There 
were  a  hundred  thousand  shapes  and  substances  of  in- 
completeness, wildly  mingled  out  of  their  places,  upside 
down,  burrowing  in  the  earth,  aspiring  in  the  air,  mould- 
ering in  the  water,  and  unintelligible  as  any  dream.  Hot 
springs  and  fiery  eruptions,  the  usual  attendants  upon 
earthquakes,  lent  their  contributions  of  confusion  to  the 
Ecene.  Boiling  water  hissed  and  heaved  within  dilapi- 
dated walls ;  whence,  also,  the  glare  and  roar  of  flamea 
i-ame  issuing  forth  ;  and  mounds  of  itshes  blocked  up 
rights  of  way,  and  wholly  changed  the  law  and  custoiD 
i)f  the  neighboi'hood. 


iOO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

In  short,  the  yet  unfinished  and  unopened  railroad  was 
in  progress ;  and,  from  the  very  core  of  all  this  dire  dis- 
onler,  trailed  smoothly  away,  upon  its  mighty  course  of 
civilization  and  improvement. 

But  as  yet,  the  neighborhood  was  shy  to  own  the  Rail- 
road. One  or  two  bold  speculators  had  projected  streets ; 
and  one  had  built  a  little,  but  had  stopped  among  the 
mud  and  ashes  to  consider  further  of  it-  A  bran-new 
tavern,  redolent  of  fresh  mortar  and  size,  and  fronting 
nothing  at  all,  had  taken  for  its  sign  The  Railway  Arms ; 
but  that  might  be  rash  enterprise  —  and  then  it  hoped  to 
sell  drink  to  the  workmen.  So,  the  Excavators'  House 
of  Call  had  sprung  up  from  a  beer-shop ;  and  the  old- 
established  Ham  and  Beef  Shop  had  become  the  Rail- 
way Eating  House,  with  a  roast  leg  of  pork  daily, 
through  interested  motives  of  a  similar  immediate  and 
popular  description.  Lodging-house  keepers  were  favor- 
able in  like  manner;  and  for  the  like  reasons  were  not 
to  be  trusted.  Tiie  general  belief  was  very  slow.  There 
were  frowzy  fields,  and  cow-houses,  and  dunghills,  and 
dust-heaps,  and  ditches,  and  gardens,  and  summer-houses, 
and  carpet-beating  grounds,  at  the  very  door  of  the  rail- 
way. Little  tumuli  of  oyster  shells  in  the  oyster  season, 
and  of  lobster  shells  in  the  lobster  season,  and  of  broken 
crockery  and  faded  cabbage  leaves  in  all  seasons,  en- 
croached upon  its  high  places.  Posts,  and  mils,  and  old 
cautions  to  trespassers,  and  backs  of  mean  houses,  and 
patches  of  wretched  vegetation,  stared  it  out  of  counte- 
name.  Nothing  was  the  better  for  it,  or  thought  of  being 
BO.  If  the  miserable  waste  ground  lying  near  it  could 
have  laughed,  it  would  have  laughed  it  to  scorn,  like 
many  of  the  miserable  neighbors. 

Staggs's    Gardens  was    uncommonly  mcredulous.     Il 


DOMBEY  AND   SOX.  101 

was  a  Utile  row  of  houses,  with  little  vsqualid  patches  of 
ground  before  thera,  fenced  off  with  old  doors,  barrel 
staves,  scraps  of  tarpaulin,  and  dead  bushes ;  with  bot- 
tomless tin  kettles  and  exhausted  iron  fenders,  thrust 
into  the  gaps.  Here,  the  Staggs's  Gardeners  trained 
scarlet  beans,  kept  fowls  and  rabbits,  erected  rotten  sum- 
mer-iiouses  (one  was  an  old  boat),  dried  clothes,  and 
smoked  pipes.  Some  were  of  opinion  that  Staggs's 
Gardens  derived  its  name  from  a  deceased  capitalist, 
one  Mr.  Staggs,  who  had  built  it  for  his  delectation. 
Others,  who  had  a  natural  taste  for  the  country,  held 
that  it  dated  from  those  rural  times  when  the  antlered 
herd,  under  the  familiar  denomination  of  Staggses,  had 
resorted  to  its  shady  precincts.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
Staggs's  Gardens  was  regarded  by  its  population  as  a 
•:|  sacred  grove  not  to  be  withered  by  railroads  ;  and  so 
confident  were  they  generally  of  its  long  outliving  any 
such  ridiculous  iin^entions,  that  the  master  chimney- 
sweeper at  the  corner,  who  was  undei'Stood  to  take  the 
lead  in  the  local  politics  of  the  Gardens,  had  jjublicly 
declared  that  on  the  occasion  of  the  railroad  opening,  if 
ever  it  did  open,  two  of  his  boys  should  ascend  the  flues 
of  his  dwelling,  with  instructions'to  hail  the  failure  with 
derisive  jeers  from  the  chimney-pots. 

To  this  unhallowed  spot,  the  very  name  of  wliicb 
liad  hitherto  been  carefully  concealed  from  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  by  his  sister,  was  little  Paul  now  borne  by  Fato 
and  Richards. 

"  That's  my  house,  Susan,"  said  Polly,  pointing  it  out. 

"  Is  it,  indeed,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Susan,  condescend- 
HJgly. 

"  And  there's  my  sister  Jemima  at  the  door,  I  do  de- 
clare ; "  cried  Polly,  "  with  ray  own  sweet  precious  babj 
'U  her  arms !  " 


»02  DOMBEY  AJfD  SON. 

The  sight  added  such  an  extensive  pair  of  wings  ta 
Polly's  impatience,  that  she  set  off  down  the  Gardens  al 
a  run,  and  bouncing  on  Jemima,  changed  babies  with  her 
in  a  twinkling ;  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  that  young 
damsel,  on  whom  the  heir  of  the  Dombeys  seemed  to 
have  fallen  from  the  clouds. 

"Why,  Polly!"  cried  Jemima.  "You!  what  a  turn 
you  have  given  me  !  who'd  have  thought  it !  come  along 
in  Polly!  How  well  you  do  look  to  be  sure!  The 
children  will  go  half  wild  to  see  you  Polly,  that  they 
will." 

That  they  did,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  noise  they 
made,  and  the  way  in  which  they  dashed  at  Polly  and 
dragged  her  to  a  low  chair  in  the  chimney  corner,  where 
her  own  honest  apple  face  became  immediately  the  centre 
of  a  bunch  of  smaller  pippins,  all  laying  their  rosy  cheeks 
close  to  it,  and  all  evidently  the  growth  of  the  same  tree. 
As  to  Polly,  she  was  full  as  noisy  and  vehement  as  the 
children ;  and  it  was  not  until  she  was  quite  out  of 
breath,  and  her  hair  was  hanging  all  about  her  flushed 
face,  and  her  new  christening  attire  was  very  much  di- 
shevelled, that  any  pause  took  place  in  the  confusion. 
Even  then,  the  small&st  Toodle  but  one  remained  in  her 
lap,  holding  on  tight  with  both  arms  round  her  neck; 
while  the  smallest  Toodle  but  two  mounted  on  the  back 
of  the  chair,  and  made  desperate  efforts,  with  one  I'^g  in 
Ihe  air,  to  kiss  her  round  the  corner. 

"  Look !  there's  a  pretty  little  lady  come  to  see  you," 
Baid  Polly  ;  "  and  see  how  quiet  she  is !  what  a  beautiful 
little  lady,  a'n't  she  ?  " 

This  reference  to  Florence,  who  had  been  standing  by 
'^he  door  not  unobservant  of  what  passed,  directed  the 
attention  of  the  vounger  branches  towards  her ;  and  had 


POJfBEY  AND  SOX.  103 

likewise  tlie  liajipy  effect  of  leading  to  the  fornial  rccojrni* 
lion  of  I\Iiss  Nipper,  who  was  not  quite  five  from  a  mis* 
giving  that  she  had  been  already  slighted. 

"  Oil  do  come  in  and  sit  down  a  minute,  Sii>an, 
please,"  said  Polly,  '•  This  is  my  sister  Jemima^  (hi* 
is.  Jemima,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  ever  do  with 
niy.sulf.  if  it  wasn't  for  Susan  Nipper ;  1  shouldn't  bo 
here  now  but  for  her." 

"  Oh  do  sit  down  Miss  Nipper,  if  you  please,"  quoth 
Jt;mima. 

Susan  took  the  extreme  corner  of  a  chair,  with  a 
Blately  and  ceremonious  aspect. 

"  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  anybody  in  all  my  life ; 
now  really,  I  never  was.  Miss  Nipper,"  said  Jemima. 

Susan  relaxing,  took  a  little  more  of  the  chair,  and 
Bmiled  graciously. 

"  Do  untie  your  bonnet-strings  and  make  yourself  at 
home,  Miss  Nipper,  please,"  entreated  Jemima.  ''  I  ara 
afraid  it's  a  poorer  place  than  you're  used  to  ;  but  you'll 
make  allowances,  I'm  sure." 

The  black-eyed  was  so  softened  by  this  deferential  be- 
havior, that  she  caught  up  little  Miss  Toodle  who  was 
running  past,  and  took  her  to  Banbury  Cross  immedi- 
ately. 

"But  Where's  my  pretty  buy?"  said  Polly.  "My 
poor  fellow  ?  I  came  all  this  way  to  see  him  in  his 
oew  clothes." 

"Ah  what  a  pity!"  cried  Jemima.  "He'll  break  his 
heart,  when  he  hears  his  mother  has  been  here.  He's  al 
school,  Polly." 

"Gone  already!" 

"  Yes.  He  went  for  the  first  time  yesterday,  for  feai 
he  should  lose  any  learning.    But  it's  half-holiday,  Polly 


104  DOMBEY  AND  SON, 

if  you  could  only  stop  till  he  comes  home  —  you  and 
Miss  Nippei*,  leastways,"  said  Jemima,  mindful  in  good 
lime  of  the  dignity  of  the  black-eyed. 

"  And  how  does  he  look,  Jemima,  bless  him ! "  faltered 
Polly. 

"  Well,  really  he  don't  look  so  bad  as  you'd  suppose," 
rrlurned  Jemima. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Polly,  with  emotion,  "  I  knew  his  legs 
must  be  too  short." 

"  His  legs  is  short,"  returned  Jemima;  "especially  be- 
hind ;  but  they'll  get  longer,  Polly,  every  day." 

It  was  a  slow,  prospective  kind  of  consolation  ;  but  the 
cheerfulness  and  good  nature  with  which  it  was  admin- 
istered, gave  it  a  value  it  did  not  intrinsically  possess. 
After  a  moment's  silence,  Polly  asked,  in  a  more  spright- 
ly manner:  — 

"And  where 's  father,  Jemima  dear?"  —  for  by  that 
patriarchal  appellation,  Mr.  Toodle  was  generally  known 
in  the  family. 

"  There  again  !  "  said  Jemima.  "  What  a  pity  !  Fa- 
ther took  his  dinner  with  him  this  morning,  and  isn't 
coming  home  till  night.  But  he's  always  talking  of  you, 
Polly,  and  telling  the  children  about  you  ;  and  is  the 
peaceablest,  patientest,  best  temperedest  soul  in  the 
world,  as  he  always  was  and  will  be  ! " 

*' Thankee,  Jemima,"  cried  the  simple  Polly;  delighted 
by  the  speech,  and  disappointed  by  the  absence. 

"  Oh  you  needn't  thank  me,  Polly,"  said  her  sister, 
giving  her  a  sound  kiss  u|)oii  the  cheek,  and  then  dancing 
little  Paul  cheerfully.  "  I  sa}'  the  same  of  you  some- 
times, and  think  it  too." 

In  spite  of  the  double  disappointment,  it  was  inijtos- 
sible  to  regard  in  the   light  of  a  failure  a  visit  which 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  lOd 

was  greeted  with  such  a  reception  ;  so  the  sisters  talked 
hopefully  about  family  matters,  and  about  Biler,  and 
about  all  his  brothers  and  sisters  :  while  the  black- 
eyed,  having  performed  several  journeys  to  Banbury 
Cross  and  back,  took  sharp  note  of  the  furniture,  tho 
Duich  clock,  the  cupboard,  tlie  castle  on  the  mantel- 
piece with  red  and  green  windows  in  it,  susceptible  of  , 
ilhmiination  by  a  candle-end  within ;  and  the  pair  of  ^ 
small  black  velvet  kittens,  each  with  a  lady's  reticule  in 
its  mouth ;  regarded  by  the  Staggs's  Gardeners  as  prod- 
igies of  imitative  art.  The  conversation  soon  becoming 
general  lest  the  black-eyed  should  go  off  at  score  and 
turn  sarcastic,  that  young  lady  related  to  Jemima  a  sum- 
mary of  everything  she  knew  concerning  Mr.  Dombey, 
his  prospects,  family,  pursuits,  and  character.  Also  au  • 
exact  inventory  of  her  personal  wardrobe,  and  some 
account  of  her  principal  relations  and  friends.  Having 
relieved  her  mind  of  these  disclosures,  she  partook  of 
shrimps  and  porter,  and  evinced  a  disposition  to  swear 
eternal  friendship. 

Little  Florence  herself  was  not  behindhand  in  im- 
proving the  occasion ;  for,  being  conducted  forth  by  the 
young  Toodles  to  inspect  some  toadstools  and  other  curi- 
osities of  the  Gardens,  she  entered  with  them,  heart  and 
soul,  on  the  formation  of  a  temporary  breakwater  across 
a  small  green  pool  that  had  collected  in  a  corner.  She 
was  still  busily  engaged  in  that  labor,  when  sought  and 
found  by  Susan  ;  who,  such  was  her  sense  of  duty,  evers 
under  the  humanizing  influence  of  shrimps,  delivered  a 
moral  address  to  her  (punctuated  with  thumps)  on  her 
degenerate  nature,  while  washing  her  face  and  hands ; 
and  predicted  that  she  would  bring  the  gray  hairs  of  her 
&imily  in  general,  with  sorrow  to  the  grave.    After  some 


106        ,  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

delay,  occasioned  by  a  pretty  long  confidential  interview 
aDovc-stairs  on  pecuniary  subjects,  between  Polly  and 
Jemima,  an  interchange  of  babies  was  again  effected  — 
for  Polly  had  all  this  time  retained  her  own  child,  and 
Jemima  little  Paul  —  and  the  visitors  took  leave. 

But  first  the  young  Toodles,  victims  of  a  pious  fraud, 
were  deluded  into  repairing  in  a  body  to  a  chandler's 
shop  iu  the  neighborhood,  for  the  ostensible  purpose  cf 
sjieniling  a  penny  ;  and  when  the  coast  was  quite  clear, 
Polly  fled:  Jemima  calling  after  her  that  if  they  could 
only  go  round  towards  the  City  Road  on  their  way 
back,  they  would  be  sure  to  meet  little  Biler  coming 
from  school. 

"  Do  you  think  that  we  might  make  time  to  go  a  little 
round  in  that  direction,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Polly,  when 
they  halted  to  take  bi-eath. 

"  Why  not,  Mrs.  Richards  ?  "  i*eturned  Susan. 

"  It's  getting  on  towards  our  dinner-time  you  know," 
said  Polly. 

But  lunch  had  rendered  her  companion  more  than  in- 
diffei-ent  to  this  grave  considei-ation,  so  she  allowed  no 
weight  to  it,  and  they  resolved  to  go  "  a  little  round." 

Now,  it  happened  that,  poor  Biler's  life  had  been,  since 
yesterday  morning,  rendered  weary  by  the  costume  of 
the  Charitable  Grinders.  The  youth  of  the  streets  could 
not  endure  it.  Ng  young  vagabond  could  be  brought  to 
bear  its  contemplation  for  a  moment,  without  throwing 
himself  upon  the  unoffending  wearer,  and  doing  him  a 
mischief.  His  social  existence  had  been  more  like  that 
uf  an  early  Christian,  than  an  innocent  child  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  He  had  been  stoned  in  tho  streets. 
He  had  been  overthrown  into  gutters ;  bespattered  with 
toud  ;  violently  llaltened  against  posts.    Entire  strangers 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  107 

to  his  person  had  lifted  his  yellow  cap  off  his  head,  and 
cast  it  to  the  winds.  His  legs  had  not  only  undergone 
verbal  criticisms  and  revilings,  but  had  been  handled  and 
pinched.  That  very  morning,  he  had  received  a  perfectly 
unsolicited  black  eye  on  his  way  to  the  Grinders'  estab- 
lishment, and  had  been  punished  for  it  by  the  master :  a 
juperannuated  old  Grinder  of  savage  disposition,  wlio 
had  been  appointed  school-master  because  he  didn't 
know  anything,  and  wasn't  fit  for  anything,  and  for 
whose  cruel  cane  all  chubby  little  boys  had  a  perfect 
fascination. 

Tims  it  fell  out  that  Biler,  on  his  way  home,  sought 
unfrequented  paths;  and  slunk  along  by  narrow  passages 
and  back  streets,  to  avoid  his  tormentors.  Being  com- 
pelled to  emerge  into  the  main  road,  his  ill  fortune 
brouglit  him  at  last  where  a  small  party  of  boys, 
headed  by  a  ferocious  young  butcher,  were  lying  in 
wait  for  any  means  of  pleasurable  excitement  that  might 
happen.  These,  finding  a  Charitable  Grinder  in  the 
midst  of  them  —  unaccountably  delivered  over,  as  it 
were,  into  their  hands  —  set  up  a  general  yell  and 
rushed  upon  him. 

But  it  so  fell  out  likewise,  that,  at  the  same  time, 
Polly,  looking  hopelessly  along  the  road  before  her,  after 
a  good  hour's  walk,  had  said  it  was  no  use  going  any 
farther,  wlien  suddenly  she  saw  this  sight.  She  no 
sooner  saw  it  tlian,  uttering  a  hasty  exclamation,  and 
giving  Master  Dombey  to  the  black-eyed,  she  started 
to  the  rescue  of  her  unhappy  little  son. 

Surprises,  like  misfortunes,  rarely  come  alone.  The 
astonished  Susan  Nipper  and  her  two  young  charges 
were  rescued  by  the  by-standers  from  under  the  very 
wheels  of  a  passing  carriage  before  they  knew  what  had 


lOS  dombet  and  son. 

happened ;  and  at  that  moment  (it  was  market-day)  a 
thundering  alarm  of  "  Mad  Bull !  "  was  raised. 

With  a  wild  confusion  before  her,  of  people  running 
up  and  down,  and  shouting,  and  wheels  running  over 
them,  and  boys  fighting,  and  mad  bulls  coming  up,  and 
the  nurse  in  the  midst  of  all  these  dangers  being  torn  lo 
pieces,  Florence  screamed  and  ran.  She  ran  till  sho 
was  exhausted,  urging  Susan  to  do  the  same ;  and  then 
stopping  and  wringing  her  hands  as  she  remembered 
they  had  left  the  other  nurse  behind,  found,  with  a  sen- 
sation of  terror  not  to  be  described,  that  she  was  quite 
alone. 

"  Susan  !  Susan  !  "  cried  Florence,  clapping  her  hands 
in  the  very  ecstasy  of  her  alarm.  "  Oh,  where  are  they ! 
where  are  they  !  " 

"  Where  are  they  ?  "  said  an  old  woman,  coming  hob- 
bling across  as  fast  as  she  could  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  way.     "  Why  did  you  run  away  from  'em  ?  " 

"  I  was  frightened,"  answered  Florence.  "  I  didn't 
know  what  I  did.  I  thought  they  were  with  me.  Where 
are  they  ?  " 

The  old  woman  took  her  by  the  wrist,  and  said,  "  I'll 
ehow  you."  y 

She  was  a  very  ugly  old  woman,  with  red  rims  round 
her  eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  mumbled  and  chattered  of 
itself  when  she  was  not  speaking.  She  was  miserably 
dressed,  and  carried  some  skins  over  her  arm.  She 
seemed  to  have  followed  Florence  some  little  way  at 
all  events,  for  she  had  lost  her  breath ;  and  this  made 
her  uglier  still,  as  she  stood  trying  to  regain  it :  working 
her  shnvelled  yellow  face  and  throat  into  all  sorts  of 
tontortions. 

Florence  was  afraid  of  her,  and  looked,  hesitating,  up 


DOMBEY  AND  SON  100 

the  street,  of  which  she  had  almost  reached  llie  bottom. 
It  was  a  solitary  place  —  more  a  back  road  tl)an  a  street 
—  and  there  was  no  one  in  it  but  herself  and  the  old 
woman. 

**  You  needn't  be  frightened  now,"  said  the  old  woman, 
Still  holding  her  tight.     "  Come  along  with  me." 

"I  —  I  don't  know  you.  What's  your  name  ?  "  asked 
Florence. 

"  Mrs.  Brown,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  Good  Mrs 
Brown." 

"  Are  they  near  here  ?  "  asked  Florence,  beginning  to 
be  led  away. 

"  Susan  a'n't  far  oif,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown  ;  "  and 
the  othei's  are  close  to  her." 

"  Is  anybody  hurt  ?  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown. 

The  child  shed  tears  of  delight  on  hearing  this,  and 
accompanied  the  old  woman  willingly  ;  though  she  could 
not  help  glancing  at  her  face  as  they  went  along  —  par- 
ticularly at  that  industrious  mouth  —  and  wondering 
whether  Bad  Mrs.  Brown,  if  there  were  such  a  persoii, 
was  at  all  like  her. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  but  had  gone  by  some  very 
uncomfortable  places,  such  as  brick-fields  and  tile-yards, 
when  the  old  woman  turned  down  a  dirty  lane,  where  the 
mud  lay  in  deep  black  ruts  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
She  stopped  before  a  shabby  little  house,  as  closely 
shut  up  as  a  house  that  was  full  of  cracks  and  crevices 
could  be.  Opening  the  door  with  a  key  she  took  out 
of  her  bonnet,  she  puslied  the  child  before  her  into 
a  back-room,  where  there  was  a  great  heap  of  rags  of 
iiflerent  colors  lying  on  the  floor :  a  heap  of  bdnea, 
luul  a  heap  of  sifted  dust  or  cinders ;  but  there  was  no 


110  POMBEY  AND  SON. 

furniture  at  all,  and  the  walls  and  ceiling  were  quit.; 
black. 

The  child  became  so  terrified  that  she  was  stricken 
speechless,  and  looked  as  though  about  to  swoon. 

"  Now  don't  be  a  young  mule,"  said  Good  Mrs. 
Brown,  reviving  her  with  a  shake.  "I'm  not  a-going 
to  hurt  you.     Sit  upon  the  rags." 

Florence  obeyed  her,  holding  out  her  folded  hands,  in 
mute  supplication. 

"  I'm  not  a-going  to  keep  you,  even,  above  an  hour," 
said  Mrs.  Brown.     "  D'ye  understand  what  I  say  ?  " 

The  child  answered  with  great  difficulty,  "  Yes." 

"  Then,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown,  takjng  her  own  seat 
on  the  bones,  "  don't  vex  me.  If  you  don't,  I  tell  you 
I  won't  hurt  you.  But  if  you  do,  I'll  kill  you.  I  could 
have  you  killed  at  any  time  —  even  if  you  was  in  your 
own  bed  at  home.  Now  let's  know  who  you  are,  and 
what  you  are,  and  all  about  it." 

The  old  woman's  threats  and  promises ;  the  dread  of 
giving  her  offence ;  and  the  habit,  unusual  to  a  child, 
but  almost  natural  to  Florence  now,  of  being  quiet,  and 
repressing  what  she  felt,  and  feared,  and  hoped  ;  enabled 
her  to  do  this  bidding,  and  to  tell  her  little  history,  of 
what  sl?e  knew  of  it.  Mrs.  Brown  listened  attentively, 
until  she  had  finished. 

"So  your  name's  Dombey,  eh?"  said   Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Yes  ma'am." 

**  I  want  that  pretty  frock.  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Good 
Mrs.  Brown,  "  and  that  little  bonnet,  and  a  petticoat  or 
two,  and  anything  else  you  can  spare.  Come  !  Take 
^m  off"." 

Florence  obeyed  as  fast  as  her  trembling  hands  would 
allow ;  keeping,  all  the  while,  a  frightened  eye  on  Mr# 


DOlVrBEY  AND   SON-.  Ill 

Brown.  When  she  had  divested  herself  of  all  the  ar- 
tides  of  appiU'el  mentioned  by  that  lady,  Mrs.  B.  ex- 
Rmined  them  at  leisure,  and  seemed  tolerably  well  satis- 
fied with  their  quality  and  value. 

"  Humph!"  she  said,  running  her  eyes  over  the  child's 
plight  figure,  "I  don't  see  anything  else — except  the 
shoes.     1  must  have  the  shoes,  Miss  Dombey." 

Poor  little  Florence  took  them  off  with  equal  alacrity, 
only  too  glad  to  have  any  more  means  of  conciliation 
about  her.  The  old  woman  then  produced  some  wretched 
substitutes  from  the  bottom  of  the  heap  of  rags,  which 
she  turned  up  for  that  purpose ;  together  with  a  girl's 
cloak,  quite  worn  out  and  very  old ;  and  the  crushed  re- 
mains of  a  bonnet  that  had  probably  been  picked  up 
from  some  ditch  or  dunghill.  In  this  dainty  raiment, 
she  instructed  Florence  to  dress  herself;  and  as  such 
preparation  seemed  a  prelude  to  her  release,  the  child 
complied  with  increased  readiness,  if  possible. 

In  hurriedly  putting  on  the  bonnet,  if  that  may  be 
railed  a  bonnet  which  was  more  like  a  pad  to  carry  loads 
on,  she  caught  it  in  her  hair  which  grew  luxuriantly,  arid 
could  not  immediately  disentangle  it.  Good  Mrs.  Brown 
whipped  out  a  large  pair  of  scissors,  and  fell  into  an  un- 
accountable state  of  excitement. 

"  Why  couldn't  you  let  me  be,"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
*  when  I  was  contented.     You  little  fool !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  don't  know  what  1  have  done," 
panted  Florence.     "  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Couldn't  help  it !  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown.  "  How  do 
you  expect  I  can  help  it  ?  Why,  Lord ! "  said  the  old 
woman,  ruffling  her  curls  with  a  furious  pleasure,  "any* 
tfody  but. me  would  have  had  'em  off  first  of  all." 

Florence  was  so  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  only  liei 


112  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

hair  and  not  her  head  which  Mrs.  Brown  coveted,  that 
Fho  offered  no  resistance  or  entreaty,  and  merely  raised 
her  mild  eyes  towards  the  face  of  that  good  soul. 

"  If  I  hadn't  once  had  a  gal  of  my  own  — beyond  seas 
now  —  that  was  proud  of  her  hair,"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
*  I'd  have  had  every  lock  of  it.  She's  far  away,  she's 
far  away  !     Oho !  Oho !  " 

Mrs.  Brown's  was  not  a  melodious  cry,  but,  accom- 
panied with  a  wild  tossing  up  of  her  lean  arras,  it  was 
full  of  passionate  grief,  and  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  Flor- 
ence, whom  it  frightened  more  than  ever.  It  had  ita 
part,  perhaps,  in  saving  her  curls ;  for  Mrs.  Brown,  after 
hovering  about  her  with  the  scissors  for  some  moments, 
(ike  a  new  kind  of  buttei-fly,  bade  her  hide  them  under 
the  bonnet  and  let  no  trace  of  them  escape  to  tempt  her. 
Having  accomplished  this  victory  over  herself,  Mrs. 
Brown  resumed  her  seat  on  the  bones,  and  smoked  a 
very  short  black  pipe,  mowing  and  mumbling  all  the 
time,  as  if  she  were  eating  the  stem. 

When  the  pipe  was  smoked  out,  she  gave  the  child  a 
rabbit-skin  to  carry,  that  she  might  appear  more  like  her 
ordinary  companion,  and  told  her  that  she  was  now  going 
to  lead  her  to  a  public  street  whence  she  could  inquire 
her  way  to  her  friends.  But  she  cautioned  her,  with 
threats  of  summary  and  deadly  vengeance  in  case  of  dis- 
obedience, not  to  talk  to  strangers,  nor  to  repair  to  her 
own  home  (which  may  have  been  too  near  for  Mrs. 
IJtown's  convenience),  but  to  her  father's  office  in  the 
city ;  also  to  wait  at  the  street  corner  where  she  would 
be  left,  until  the  clock  struck  three.  These  directioi:.-'  [r_ 
Mrs.  Brown  enforced  with  assurances  that  tliere  would  . 
bti  potent  eyes  and  ears  in  her  employment  cogijizant  of 
all  she  did;  and  these  directions  Florence  promised  faith- 
fiiliv  and  earne.-lly  to  observe. 


DOBIBEY    AND   SON.  1)3 

At  length  Mrs.  Brown,  issuing  forth,  conducted  hei 
changed  and  ragged  little  friend  through  a  labyrinth  of 
narrow  streets  and  lanes  and  alleys,  whicli  emerged  after 
a  long  time,  upon  a  stable-yard,  with  a  gate-way  at  the 
end,  whence  the  roar  of  a  great  thoroughfare  made  itself 
audible.  Pointing  out  this  gate-way,  and  informing  Flor- 
ence that  when  tlie  clock  struck  three  .^he  was  to  go  to 
the  left,  Mrs.  Brown,  after  making  a  parting  grasp  at  her 
hair  which  seemed  involuntary  and  quite  beyond  her 
own  control,  told  her  she  knew  what  to  do,  and  bade 
her  go  and  do  it :  remembei-ing  that  she  was  watched. 

With  a  ligiiter  heart,  but  still  sore  afraid,  Florence 
felt  herself  released,  and  tripped  off  to  the  corner.  When 
she  reached  it,  she  looked  back  and  saw  the  head  of 
Good  Mrs.  Brown  peeping  out  of  the  low  wooden  pas- 
sage, where  she  had  issued  her  parting  injunctions  ;  like- 
wise the  fist  of  Good  Mrs.  Brown  shaking  towards  her. 
But  though  she  often  looked  back  afterwards  —  every 
minute,  at  least,  in  her  nervous  recollection  of  the  old 
woman  —  she  could  not  see  her  again. 

Florence  remained  there,  looking  at  the  bustle  in  the 
street,  and  more  and  more  bewildered  by  it ;  and  in  the 
mean  while  the  clocks  appeared  to  have  made  up  their 
minds  never  to  strike  three  any  more.  At  last  the 
steeples  rang  out  three  o'clock ;  there  was  one  close  by, 
so  she  couldn't  be  mistaken;  and  — after  often  looking 
over  her  shoulder,  and  often  going  a  little  way,  and  as 
often  coming  back  figain,  lest  the  all-powerful  spies  of 
Mrs.  Brown  should  take  offence  —  she  hurried  off,  as 
last  as  she  could  in  her  slipshod  shoes,  holding  the  rabbit 
^kin  tight  in  her  hand. 

All  she  knew  of  her  father's  offices  was  that  they  be- 
longed to  Dombey  and  Son,  and  that  that  was  a  great 

VOL.    I.  8 


114  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

power  belonging  to  the  city.  So  she  could  only  ask  the 
way  to  Dombey  and  Son's  in  the  city ;  and  as  she  gen- 
erally made  inquiry  of  children  —  being  afraid  to  ask 
grown  people  —  she  got  very  little  satisfaction  indeed. 
But  by  dint  of  asking  her  way  to  the  city  after  a  while, 
and  dropping  the  rest  of  her  inquiry  for  the  present,  she 
i-eally  did  advance,  by  slow  degrees,  towards  the  heart 
of  that  great  region  which  is  governed  by  the  terrible 
Lord  Mayor. 

Tired  of  walking,  repulsed  and  pushed  about,  stunned 
by  the  noise  and  confusion,  anxious  for  her  brother  and 
the  nurses,  terrified  by  what  she  had  undergone,  and  the 
prospect  of  encountering  her  angry  father  in  such  an  al- 
tered state ;  perplexed  and  frightened  alike  by  what  had 
passed,  and  what  was  passing,  and  what  was  yet  before 
her ;  Florence  went  upon  her  weary  way  with  tearful 
eyes,  and  once  or  twice  could  not  help  stopping  to  ease 
her  bursting  heart  by  crying  bitterly.  But  few  people 
noticed  her  at  those  times,  in  the  garb  she  wore :  or  if 
they  did,  believed  that  she  was  tutored  to  excite  com- 
passion, and  passed  on.  Florence,  too,  called  to  her  aid 
all  the  firmness  and  self-reliance  of  a  character  that  her 
sad  experience  had  prematurely  formed  and  tried  ;  and 
keeping  the  end  she  had  in  view  steadily  before  her, 
steadily  pursued  it. 

It  was  full  two  hours  later  in  the  afternoon  thui  when 
she  had  started  on  this  strange  adventure,  when,  escap- 
ing from  the  clash  and  clangor  of  a  narrow  street  fuU  ol 
carts  and  wagons,  she  peeped  into  a  kind  of  wharf  m 
landing-place,  upon  the  riverside,  where  there  were  a 
great  many  packages,  casks,  and  boxes,  strewn  about ;  a 
large  pair  of  wooden  scales ;  and  a  little  wooden  house 
vn  wheels,  outside  of  which,  looking  at  the  neighboring 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  115 

masts  and  boats,  a  stout  man  stood  whistling,  with  his 
pen  behind  his  ear,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as  if  hig 
day's  work  were  nearly  done. 

"  Now  then  !  "  said  tins  man,  happening  to  turn  round. 
*  We  haven't  got  anything  for  you,  little  girl.     Be  off!" 

"  If  you  please,  is  this  the  city  ?  "  asked  the  trembling 
duugliter  of  the  Dombeys. 

"  Ah !  it's  the  city.  You  know  that  well  enough,  I 
dare  say.     Be  off!     We  haven't  got  anything  for  you." 

"  I  don't  want  anything,  thank  you,"  was  the  timid 
answer.  "  Except  to  know  the  way  to  Dombey  and 
Son's." 

The  man  who  had  been  strolling  carelessly  towards 
her,  seemed  sui-prised  by  this  reply,  and  looking  atten- 
tively in  her  face,  rejoined  : 

"  Why,  what  can  you  want  with  Dombey  and  Son's  ?  " 

•'  To  know  the  way  there,  if  you  please." 

The  man  looked  at  her  yet  more  curiously,  and  rubbed 
the  back  of  his  head  so  hard  in  his  wonderment  that  he 
knocked  his  own  hat  off. 

"  Joe  !  "  he  called  to  another  man  —  a  laborer  —  as 
he  picked  it  up  and  put  it  on  again. 

"  Joe  it  is  ! "  said  Joe. 

"  Where's  tiiat  young  spark  of  Dombey's  who's  been 
watching  the  shipment  of  them  goods  ?  " 

"  Just  gone,  by  the  t'other  gate,"  said  Joe. 

"  Call  him  back  a  minute." 

Joe  ran  op  an  archway,  bawling  as  he  went,  and  very 
boon  returned  with  a  blithe-looking  boy. 

"  You'i-e  Dombey's  jockey,  a'n't  you  ?  "  said  the  first 
man. 

"  I'm  in  Dombey's  House,  Mr.  Clark,"  returned  th« 
Doy. 


116  DOM  BEY  AND   SON. 

"  Look'ye  here,  then,"  said  Mr.  Clark. 

Obedient  to  the  indication  of  Mr.  Clark's  hand,  the 
boy  approached  towards  Florence,  wondering,  as  well  he 
might,  what  he  had  to  do  with  Jier.  But  she,  who  had 
heard  what  passed,  and  who,  besides  the  relief  of  so  sud- 
denly considering  herself  safe  and  at  her  journey's  end^  ' 
felt  reassured  beyond  all  measure  by  his  lively  youthful 
race  and  manner,  ran  eagerly  up  to  him,  leaving  one  of 
Ihe  slipshod  shoes  upon  the  ground,  and  caught  hia 
hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"  I  am  lost,  if  you  please  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Lost ! "  cried  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  I  was  lost  this  morning,  a  long  way  from  here 
—  and  I  have  had  my  clothes  taken  away,  since  —  and  I 
am  not  dressed  in  my  own  now  —  and  my  name  is  Flor- 
ence Dombey,  my  little  brother's  only  sister — and,  oh 
dear,  dear,  take  care  of  me,  if  you  please  !  "  sobbed 
Florence,  giving  full  vent  to  the  childish  feelings  she  had 
so  long  suppressed,  and  bursting  into  tears.  At  the 
same  time  her  miserably  bonnet  falling  off,  her  hair  came 
tumbling  down  about  her  face :  moving  to  speechless  ad- 
miration and  commiseration,  young  Walter,  nephew  of 
Solomon  Gills,  Ships'  Instrument-maker  in  general. 

Mr.  Clark  stood  rapt  in  amazement :  observing  under 
his  breath,  /never  saw  such  a  start  on  this  Avharf  before, 
Walter  picked  up  the  shoe,  and  put  it  on  the  little  fooS 
as  the  Pi'ince  in  the  story  might  have  fitted  Cinderella's 
glipper  on.  He  hung  the  rabbit-skin  over  his  left  arm ; 
pave  the  right  to  Florence ;  and  felt  not  to  say  like 
Richard  Whittington  —  that  is  a  tame  comparison  —  but  "- 
like  Saint  George  of  England,  with  the  dragon  lying 
dead  before  him. 

"  Don't  cry,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Walter,  in  a  trans 


i 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  117 

port  of  enthusiasm.  "  "What  a  wonderful  thing  for  me 
that  1  am  here.  You  are  as  safe  now  as  if  you  were 
guarded  by  a  whole  boat's  crew  of  picked  men  from  a 
man-of-war.     Oh  don't  cry." 

"  I  won't  cry  any  more,"  said  Florence.  "  I  am  onlj 
Trying  for  joy." 

"  Crying  tor  joy ! "  thought  Walter,  "  and  I'm  the 
cause  of  it.  Come  along,  Miss  Dombey.  Tiiere's  the 
other  shoe  off  now !     Take  mine,  Miss  Dombey." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Florence,  checking  him  in  the  act 
of  impetuously  pulling  off  his  own.  ''  These  do  better 
These  do  very  well." 

"■  Why,  to  be  sure,"  said  Walter,  glancing  at  her  foot 
"mine  are  a  mile  too  large.  What  am  I  thinking  about! 
You  never  could  walk  in  mine!  Come  along.  Miss 
Dombey.  Let  me  see  the  villain  who  will  dare  molest 
you  now." 

So  Walter,  looking  immensely  fierce,  led  off  Florence, 
looking  very  happy ;  and  they  went  arm  in  arm  along 
the  streets,  perfectly  indifferent  to  any  astonishment  that 
their  appearance  might  or  did  excite  by  the  way. 

It  was  growing  dark  and  foggy,  and  beginning  to  rain 
too;  but  they  cai'cd  nothing  for  this:  being  both  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  late  adventures  of  Florence,  which  she 
related  with  the  innocent  good  faith  and  confidence  of 
her  years,  while  AValter  hstened  as  if,  far  from  the  mud 
and  grease  of  Tliames-.street,  they  were  rambling  alone 
among  the  broad  leaves  and  tall  trees  of  some  desert 
island  in  the  tropics — as  he  very  likely  fancied,  for  the 
ume.  tliey  were. 

"  Have  we  far  to  go  ?  "  asked  Florence  at  last,  lifting 
"tier  eyes  to  her  companion's  face. 

"  Ah  !  By  the  by,"  said  Walter,  stopping,  "  let  me  see 


118  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

where  are  we  ?  Oh  !  I  know.  But  the  offices  are  shut 
up  now,  Miss  Dorabey.  There's  nobody  there.  Mr. 
Dombey  lias  gone  home  long  ago.  I  suppose  we  must 
go  home  too  ?  or,  stay.  Suppose  I  take  you  to  niy 
uncle's,  wliere  I  live  —  it's  very  near  here  —  and  go  to 
your  house  in  a  coach  to  tell  them  you  are  safe,  and 
bring  you  back  some  clothes.     Won't  that  be  best?  " 

"J  think  so,"  answered  Florence.  "  Don't  you?  What 
do  you  think  ?  " 

As  they  stood  deliberating  in  the  street,  a  man  passed 
them,  who  glanced  quickly  at  Walter  as  he  went  by,  as 
if  he  recognized  him  ;  but  seeming  to  correct  that  first 
impression,  he  passed  on  without  stopping. 

"  Why,  I  think  it's  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter.  «  Car- 
ker  in  our  House.  Not  Carker,  our  manager.  Miss 
Dombey  —  the  other  Carker  ;  the  junior  —  Halloa  ! 
Mr.  Carker  !  " 

"  Is  that  Walter  Gay  ?  "  said  the  other,  sto[)ping  and 
returning.  "  I  couldn't  believe  it,  with  such  a  strange 
companion." 

As  he  stooa  near  a  lamp,  listening  with  surprise  to 
Walter's  hurried  explanation,  he  presented  a  remarkable 
contrast  to  the  two  youthful  figures  arm-in-arm  before 
him.  He  was  not  old,  but  his  hair  was  white  ;  his  body 
was  bent,  or  bowed  as  if  by  the  weight  of  some  great 
trouble ;  and  there  were  deep  lines  in  his  worn  and  mel- 
ancholy face.  The  fire  of  his  eyes,  the  expression  of 
his  fcaiures,  the  very  voice  in  wiiich  he  spoke,  were  all 
,  ?ui)dued  and  quenched,  as  if  the  spirit  within  him  lay  iu 
ttJ.hes.  He  was  respectably,  though  very  plainly,  dressed 
in  black ;  but  his  clothes,  moulded  to  the  general  char- 
acter of  his  figure,  seemed  to  shrink  and  abase  them- 
selves upon  him,  and  to  join  in  the  sorrowful  solicitation 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  119 

•v'hich  the  whole  man  from  head  to  foot  expressed,  to  be 
left  unnoticed,  and  alone  in  his  hnmility. 

And  yet  his  interest  in  youtli  and  hopefidness  was  not 
extinj;uished  with  the  other  embers  of  his  soul,  for  he 
watched  the  boy's  earnest  countenance  as  he  spoke  with 
unusual  sympathy,  though  with  an  inexplicable  show  cX 
trouble  and  compassion,  which  escaped  into  his  look;-, 
however  hard  he  strove  to  hold  it  prisoner.  When  Wal- 
ter, in  conclusion,  put  to  him  the  question  he  had  put  to 
Florence,  he  still  stood  glancing  at  him  with  the  same 
expression,  as  if  he  read  some  fate  npon  his  face,  mourn- 
fully at  variance  with  its  present  brightness. 

"What  do  you  advise,  Mr.  Carker?"  said  Walter, 
smiling.  "  You  always  give  me  good  advice,  you  know, 
when  you  do  speak  to  me.     That's  not  often,  though." 

"I  think  your  own  idea  is  the  best,"  he  answca-ed: 
looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  back  again. 

"  jNIr.  Carker,"  said  Walter,  brightening  with  a  gen- 
erous thought,  "  Come  I  Here's  a  chance  for  you.  Go 
you  to  Mr.  Dorabey's,  and  be  the  messenger  of  good 
news.  It  may  do  you  some  good,  sir.  I'll  remain  at 
home.     You  shall  go." 

"I !"  returned  the  other. 

"  Yes.     Why  not,  Mr.  Carker  ?  "  said  the  boy. 

He  merely  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  answer ;  he 
seemed  in  a  manner  ashamed  and  afraid  even  to  do  that ; 
and  bidding  him  good-night,  and  advising  him  to  make 
haste,  turned  away. 

"  Come,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Walter,  looking  after  him 
ds  they  turned  away  also,  "  we'll  go  to  my  uncle's  £S 
S|uick  as  we  can.  Did  you  ever  hear  Mr.  Dombey  speak 
of  Mr.  Carker,  the  junior.  Miss  Florence?" 

"No,"  returned  the  child,  mildly,  "I  don't  ofteu  heai 
pupa  siK-iik." 


120  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"Ah.  true!  more  shame  for  him,"  thought  Walter 
After  a  minute's  pause,  during  which  he  had  been  look- 
ing down  upon  the  gentle  patient  little  face  moving  on 
fit  his  side,  he  bestirred  himself  with  his  accustomed 
boyisli  animation  and  restlessness  to  change  the  subject} 
Bnd  one  of  the  unfortunate  shoes  coming  off  again  op- 
portunely, proposed  to  carry  Florence  to  his  uncle's  ia 
his  arms.  Fldi-ence,  though  very  tired,  laughingly  de- 
clined the  proposal,  lest  he  should  let  her  fall ;  and  aa 
they  were  already  near  the  wooden  midshipman,  and  as 
Walter  went  on  to  cite  various  precedents,  from  ship- 
wrecks and  other  moving  accidents,  where  younger  boys 
than  he  had  triumphantly  rescued  and  carried  otf  oldei 
girls  than  Florence,  they  were  still  in  full  conversation 
about  it  when  they  arrived  at  the  Instrument-maker's 
door. 

"  Halloa,  Uncle  Sol !"  cried  Walter,  bursting  into  the 
shop,  and  speaking  incoherently  and  out  of  breath,  from 
that  time  forth,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  "  Here's  a 
wonderful  adventure!  Here's  Mr.  Dombey's  daughter 
lost  in  the  streets,  and  robbed  of  her  clothes  by  an  old 
witch  of  a  woman  —  found  by  me  —  brought  home  to 
our  parlor  to  rest  — look  here  !  " 

"  Good  Heaven  ! "  said  Uncle  Sol,  starting  back  again.st 
bis  favorite  compass-case.     "  It  can't  be  !  Well,  I  "  — 

"  No,  nor  anybody  else,"  said  Walter,  anticipating  tho 
mat.  "  Nobody  would,  nobody  could,  you  know.  Here  1 
just  help  me  lift  the  little  sofa  near  the  fire,  will  you, 
Uncle  Sol — take  care  of  the  plates  —  cui  borne  dinner 
for  her,  will  you  uncle  —  throw  those  shoes  upder  the 
prate.  Miss  Florence  —  put  your  feet  on  the  fender  to 
dry  —  how  damp  they  are  —  here's  an  adventure,  uncle 
eh  ?  —  God  bless  my  soul,  how  hot  I  am  ! " 


DOMREY   AND   SON.  121 

Solomon  Gills  was  quite  as  hot,  by  sympathy,  and  in 
excessive  bewilderment.  He  patted  Florence's  head, 
pressed  her  to  eat,  pressed  her  to  drink,  rubbed  the  soles 
of  her  feet  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  heated  at  tlio 
Ore,  followed  his  locomotive  nephew  with  his  eyes,  and 
ears,  and  had  no  clear  perception  of  anything  except  thai 
he  was  being  constantly  knocked  against  and  tumbled 
over  by  that  excited  young  gentleman,  as  he  darted 
about  the  room  attempting  to  accomplish  twenty  things 
at  once,  and  doing  noUiing  at  all. 

"  Here,  wait  a  minute,  uncle,"  he  continued,  catching 
up  a  candle,  "  till  I  run  up-stairs,  and  get  another  jacket 
on,  and  then  I'll  be  off.  I  say,  uncle,  isn't  this  an  ad- 
venture ? "  ' 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  who,  with  his  spectacles 
jfl  his  forehead  and  the  great  chronometer  in  his  pocket, 
was  incessantly  oscillating  between  Florence  on  the  sofa 
and  his  nephew  in  all  parts  of  the  parlor,  "  it's  the  most 
extraordinary  "  — 

"  No,  but  do,  uncle,  please  —  do,  Miss  Florence  — 
dinner,  you  know,  uncle." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  cried  Solomon,  cutting  instantly  into 
a  leg  of  mutton,  as  if  he  were  catering  for  a  giant.  "Ill 
take  care  of  her,  "Wally !  I  understand.  Pretty  dear! 
Famished,  of  course.  You  go  and  get  ready.  Lord 
bless  me  !  Sir  Richard  Whittington  thrice  Lord  Mayor 
of  London  !  " 

Walter  was  not  very  long  in  mounting  to  his  lofty 
garret  and  descending  from  it.  but  in  the  mean  time 
Florence,  overcome  by  fatigue,  had  sunk  into  a  doze 
before  the  fire.  The  short  interval  of  quiet,  though  only 
^  few  minutes  in  duration,  enabled  Solomon  Gills  so  far 
to  collect  hi  5  wits  as  to  make  some  little  arrangements 


(22  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

for  lier  comfort,  and  to  darken  the  room,  and  to  screen 
her  from  the  bhize.  Thus,  when  the  boy  returned,  she 
was  sleeping  peacefully. 

"  That's  capital !  "  he  whispered,  giving  Solomon  such 
a  hug  that  it  squeezed  a  new  expres.>ion  into  his  face. 
"  Now  I'm  oiF.  I'll  just  take  a  crust  of  bread  wilh  me, 
for  I'm  very  hungry  —  and  —  don't  wake  her,  Uncle 
Sol." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Solomon.     "  Pretty  child." 

"  Pretty,  indeed  !  "  cried  Walter.  "  /  never  saw  such 
a  face,  Uncle  Sol.     Now  I'm  off." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Solomon,  greatly  relieved. 

*'  I  say,  Uncle  Sol,"  cried  AValter,  putting  his  face  in 
at  the  door. 

*'  Here  he  is  again,"  said  Solomon. 

'*  How  does  she  look  now  ?  " 

"  Quite  happy,"  said  Solomon, 

"  That's  famous  !  now  I'm  off." 

'*  I  hope  you  are,"  said  Solomon  to  himself. 

"  I  sjiy,  Uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  reappearing  at  the 
dooi". 

"  Here  he  is  again  !  "  said  Solomon. 

"  We  met  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  in  the  street,  queerer 
than  ever.  He  bade  me  good-by,  but  cjime  behind  us 
here  —  there's  an  odd  thing !  —  for  when  we  reached 
the  shop-door,  I  looked  round,  and  saw  him  going  quietly 
away,  like  a  servant  who  had  seen  me  home,  or  a  faith- 
ful dog.     How  does  she  look  now,  uncle  ?  " 

"  Pretty  much  the  same  as  before,  Wally,"  replied 
Uncle  Sol. 

"  That's  right.     Now  1  a/n  off !  " 

And  fhi  time  he  really  was;  and  Solomon  Gills,  with 
w  appetite  for  dinner,  sat  on  the  opposite  side  o**  the 


UOMBEY  AND  SOI?  123 

fire,  watching  Florence  in  her  slumber,  building  a  greaJ 
many  airy  castles  of  the  most  fantastic  architecture  ;  and 
looking  in  the  dim  shade,  and  in  the  close  vicinity  of  all 
the  instruments,  like  a  magician  disguised  in  a  Welsh 
wig  and  a  suit  of  coffee  color,  who  held  the  child  iu  ku 
enchanted  sleep. 

In  the  mean  time"  Walter  proceeded  towards  Mr. 
Dombey's  house  at  a  pace  seldom  achieved  by  a  hack 
horse  from  the  stand;  and  yet  with  his  head  out  of  win- 
dow every  two  or  three  minutes,  in  impatient  remon- 
strance with  the  driver.  Arriving  at  his  journey's  end, 
he  leaped  out,  and  breathlessly  announcing  his  errand  to 
the  servant,  followed  him  straight  into  the  library,  Avhere 
there  was  a  great  confusion  of  tongues,  and  where  Mr 
Doinbey,  his  sister,  aiid  JNIiss  Tox,  Richards,  and  Nip- 
per, were  all  congregated  together. 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Walter,  rushing 
up  -to  him,  "  but  I'm  happy  to  say  it's  all  right,  sir.  Miss 
Dombey's  found !  " 

The  boy  with  his  open  face,  and  flowing  hair,  and 
sparkling  eyes,  panting  with  pleasure  and  excitement, 
was  wonderfully  ojiposed  to  Mr.  Dorabey,  as  he  sat  con- 
fronting him  in  his  library  chair. 

"I  told  you,  Louisa,  that  she  would  certainly  ba 
found,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  slightly  over  hi« 
shoulder  at  that  lady,  who  wept  in  company  with  Miss 
Tox.  "  Let  the  servants  know  that  no  further  steps  are 
U'cessary.  This  boy  who  bj-ings  the  information,  is 
young  Gay,  from  the  office.  How  was  ray  daughter 
found,  sir  ?  I  know  how  she  was  lost."  Here  he 
lotiked  majestically  at  Richards.  "  But  how  was  «he 
i'ound  ?  who  found  her  ?  " 

'  Why,  I  believe  /  found  Miss  Dombey,  sir,"  said 


124  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Walter  modestly  ;  "  at  least  I  don't  know  that  I  cai^ 
claim  the  merit  of  having  exactly  found  her,  sir,  but  I 
was  the  fortunate  instrument  of"  — 

'•  What  do  you  mean,  sir,"  interrupted  Mr.  Domlwy 
regarding  the  boy's  evident  pride  and  pleasure  in  bis 
share  of  the  transaction  with  an  instinctive  disHke,  "by 
not  having  exactly  found  ray  daughter,  and  by  being  a 
fortunate  instrument  ?  Be  plain  and  coherent,,  if  you 
please." 

It  was  quite  out  of  Walter's  power  to  be  coherent ; 
but  he  rendered  himself  ^s  explanatory  as  he  could,  in 
his  breathless  state,  and  stated  why  he  had  come  alone. 

"  You  hear  this,  girl  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey  sternly  to 
the  black-eyed.  '•  Take  what  is  necessary,  and  return 
immediately  with  this  young  man  to  fetch  Miss  Florence 
home.     Gay,  you  will  be  rewarded  to-morrow." 

"  Oh  !  thank  you  sir,"  said  Walter.  "  You  are  very 
kind.     I'm  sure  1  was  not  thinking  of  any  reward,  sir." 

"  You  are  a  boy,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey,  suddenly  and 
almost  fiercely ;  "  and  what  you  think  of,  or  affect  to 
think  of,  is  of  little  consequence.  You  have  done  well, 
sir.  Don  t  undo  it.  Louisa,  please  to  give  the  lad  some 
wine." 

Mr.  Dorabey 's  glance  followed  Walter  Gay  with  sharp 
disfavor,  as  he  left  the  room  under  the  pilotage  of  Mrs. 
Chick  ;  and  it  may  be  that  his  mind's  eye  followed  him 
with  no  greater  relish  as  he  rode  back  to  his  uncle's  with 
Miss  Susan  Nipper. 

There  they  found  that  Florence,  much  refreshed  by  _ 
sleep,  had  dined,  and  greatly  improved  the  acquaintance 
of  Solomon  Gills,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of  per- 
fect confide»>ce  and  ease.      The  black-eyed   (who   had 
cried  so  much  that  she  might  now  be. called  the  red -eyed, 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  125 

and  who  was  very  silent  and  depressed)  caiigbt  her  in 
her  arms  without  a  word  of  contradiction  or  reproachi 
and  made  a  very  hysterical  meeting  of  it.  Then  cou. 
verting  the  parlor  for  the  nonce,  into  a  private  tiring 
room,  she  dressed  her,  with  great  care,  in  proper  clothes; 
and  presently  led  her  forth,  as  like  a  Dombey  as  her 
natural  disqualifications  admitted  of  her  being  made. 

"  Good-night ! "  said  Florence,  running  up  to  Solo- 
mon.    "  You  have  been  very  good  to  me." 

Old  Sol  was  quite  delighted,  and  kissed  her  like  her 
grandfather. 

"  Good-night,  Walter !     Good-by  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Good-by  !  "  said  Walter,  giving  both  his  hands. 

"  I'll  never  forget  you,"  pursued  Florence.  "  No  !  in 
deed  I  never  will.     Good-by,  Walter  !  " 

In  the  innocence  of  her  grateful  heart,  the  child  lifted 
up  her  face  to  his.  Walter,  bending  down  his  own, 
raised  it  again,  all  red  and  burning ;  and  looked  at  Uncle 
Sol,  quite  sheepishly. 

"  Where's  Walter?"  "  Good-night,  Walter!"  "G^ood- 
by,  Walter  !  "  "  Shake  hands,  once  more,  Walter  J " 
This  was  still  Florence's  cry,  after  she  was  shut  up  with 
her  little  maid,  in  the  coach.  And  when  the  coach  at 
length  moved  off,  Walter  on  the  doorstep  gayly  returned 
the  waving  of  her  handkerchief,  while  the  wooden  mid- 
ehipman  behind  him  seemed,  like  himself,  intent  upon 
that  coach  alone,  excluding  all  the  other  passing  coachea 
from  his  observation. 

In  good  time  Mr.  Dombey's  mansion  was  gained  again, 
and  again  there  was  a  noise  of  tongues  in  the  library. 
Again,  too,  the  coach  was  ordered  to  wait  —  "  for  Airs. 
Bichards,"  one  of  Susan's  fellow-servants  ominously 
whispered,  as  she  passed  with  Florence. 


126  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  entrance  of  the  lost  child  mad  '  a  slight  sensft- 
tion,  but  not  much.  Mr.  Dombey,  who  hud  never  found 
her,  kissed  her  once  upon  the  forehead,  and  cautioned 
her  not  to  run  away  again,  or  wander  anywhere  with 
treacherous  attendants.  Mrs.  Chick  stopped  in  hei 
lamentations  on  the  corruption  of  human  nature,  ever 
when  beckoned  to  the  paths  of  virtue  by  a  Charitablft 
Grinder ;  and  received  her  with  a  welcome  something 
short,  of  the  reception  due  to  none  but  perfect  Dombeys. 
Miss  Tox  regulated  her  feelings  by  the  models  before 
her.  Richards,  the  culprit  Richards,  alone  poured  out 
her  heart  in  broken  words  of  welcome,  and  bowed  her- 
self over  the  little  wandering  head  as  if  she  really 
loved  it. 

"  Ah  Richards  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  sigh.  '«  It 
would  have  been  much  more  satisfactory  to  those  who 
wish  to  think  well  of  their  fellow-creatures,  and  much 
more  becoming  in  you,  if  you  liad  shown  some  proper 
faeling,  in  time,  for  the  little  child  that  is  now  going 
to  be  prematurely  deprived  of  its  natural  nourishment." 

"  Cut  off,"  said  Miss  Tox,  in  a  pljiintive  whisper, 
"  from  one  common  fountain  !  " 

"  If  it  was  my  ungrateful  case,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
Bolemnly,  "and  I  had  your  reflections,  Richards,  I  should 
feel  as  if  the  Charitable  Grinders'  di-ess  would  blight  my 
child,  and  the  education  choke  him." 

For  the  matter  of  that  —  but  Mrs.  Chick  didn't  knew 
h  —  he  had  been  pretty  well  blighted  by  the  dress  al- 
ready ;  and  as  to  the  education,  even  its  retributive  effect 
oiight  be  produced  in  time,  for  it  was  a  storm  of  sobs  and 
blows. 

"  Louisa !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  li  is  not  necessary 
to  prolong  those  observations.    Th*'  woman  is  discliarge^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  127 

and  paid.  You  leave  this  house,  Richards,  for  takiii*; 
my  son  —  my  son,"  said  Mr.  Donibey,  empliatically  re- 
peating these  two  words,  "  into  haunts  and  into  society 
which  are  not  to  be  thought  of  without  a  shudder.  A3 
to  the  accident  which  befell  Miss  Florence  this  moming 
I  regard  that,  as,  in  one  great  sense,  a  happy  and  ibrtu- 
nate  circumstance  ;  inasmuch  as,  but  for  that  occurrence 
I  never  could  have  known  —  and  from  your  own  lips 
loo  —  of  what  you  had  been  guilty.  I  think,  Louisa, 
the  other  nurse,  the  young  person,"  here  Miss  Nipi>er 
Bobbed  aloud,  "  being  so  much  younger,  and  necessarily 
influenced  by  Paul's  nurse,  may  reriiain.  Have  the 
goodness  to  direct  tliat  this  woman's  coach  is  paid  to  "  — 
Mr.  Dombey  stop[>ed  and  winced  —  "to  Staggs's  Gar- 
dens." 

Polly  moved  towards  the  door,  with  Florence  holding 
to  her  dress,  and  crying  to  her  in  the  most  pathetic  man- 
ner not  to  go  away.  It  was  a  dagger  in  the  haughty 
father's  heart,  an  arrow  in  his  brain,  to  see  how  the  llesli 
and  blood  he  could  not  disown  clung  to  this  obscure 
stranger,  and  he  sitting  by.  Not  that  he  cared  to  whom 
his  daughter  turned,  or  from  whom  turned  away.  The 
swift  sharp  agony  struck  through  him,  as  he  thought  of 
what  his  son  might  do. 

His  son  cried  lustily  that  night,  at  all  events.  Sooth 
to  say,  poor  Paul  had  better  reason  for  his  tears  than 
sons  of  that  age  often  have,  for  he  had  lost  his  second 
aiother  —  his  first,  so  far  as  he  knew  —  by  a  stroke  as 
sudden  as  that  natural  affliction  which  had  darkened  the 
beginning  of  his  life.  At  the  same  blow,  his  sister  too, 
who  cried  herself  to  sleep  so  mournfully,  had  lost  as 
good  and  true  a  friend.  But  that  is  quite  beside  the 
question.     Let  us  waste  no  words  about  it. 


128  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 


CHAPTER    Vn. 

A   bird's- ETE   GLIMPSE   OF  MISS   TOX'S  DWEI  LlNG-PLACt: 
ALSO   OP   THE   STATE   OF   MISS   TOX'S   AFFECTIONS. 

Miss  Tox  inhabited  a  dark  little  house  that  had  been 
squeezed,  at  some  remote  period  of  English  History,  into 
a  fashionable  neighborhood  at  the  west  end  of  the  town, 
where  it  stood  in  the  shade  like  a  poor  relation  of  the 
great  street  round  the  corner,  coldly  looked  down  ujK)n 
by  mighty  mansions.  It  was  not  exactly  in  a  court,  and 
it  was  not  exactly  in  a  yard ;  but  it  was  in  the  dullest  of 
No-Thoroughfares,  rendered  anxious  and  haggard  by 
distant  double  knocks.  The  name  of  this  retirement, 
where  grass  grew  between  the  chinks  in  the  stone  pave- 
ment, was  Princess's-place  ;  and  in  Princess's-place  was 
Princess's  Chapel,  with  a  tinkling  bell,  where  sometimes 
as  many  as  five-and-twenty  people  attended  service' on  a 
Sunday.  The  Princess's  Arms  was  also  there,  and  much 
resorted  to  by  splendid  footmen.  A  sedan-chair  was 
kept  inside  the  railing  before  the  Princess's  Arms,  but 
t  had  never  come  out,  within  the  memory  of  man  ;  and 
on  fine  mornings,  the  top  of  every  rail  (there  are  eight- 
and-forty,  as  Miss  Tox  had  often  counted)  was  decorated 
with  a  pewter- pot. 

There  was  another  private  house  besides  Miss  Tor's 
ai  Princess's-place :  not  to  mention  an  immense  pair  o£ 
gate?,  with  an  immense  pair  of  lion-headed  knockers  on 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  129 

iLem,  which  were  never  opened  by  any  chance,  and  were 
supposed  to  constitute  a  disused  entrance  to  somebody's 
etables.  Indeed,  there  was  a  smack  of  stabhng  in  the  air 
of  Princess's-pkice  ;  and  Miss  Tox's  bedroom  (wliich  Avas 
at  the  back)  commanded  a  vista  of  Mews,  where  hos- 
tlers, at  whatever  sort  of  work  engajjed,  were  continu- 
ally accompanying  themselves  with  eflervescent  noises  ; 
and  where  the  most  domestic  and  confidential  garments 
of  coachmen  and  their  wives  and  families,  usually  hung, 
like  Mucbeth's  banners,  on  the  outward  walls. 

At  this  other  private  house  in  Princess's-place,  t^i. 
anted  by  a  retired  butler  who  had  married  a  house-keeper, 
apartments  were  let  Furnished,  to  a  single  gentleman  : 
to  wit  a  wooden-featured,  blue-faced,  Major,  with  his 
eyes  starting  out  of  his  head,  in  whom  Miss  Tox  recog- 
nized, as  slie  herself  expressed  it,  "  something  so  truly 
military  ;  "  and  between  whom  and  herself,  an  occasional 
interchange  of  newspapers  and  pamphlets,  and  such  Pla- 
tonic dalliance,  was  effected  through  the  mediinn  of  a 
dark  servant  of  the  major's  whom  Miss  Tox  was  quite 
content  to  classify  as  a  "  native,"  without  connecting  him 
with  any  geographical  idea  whatever. 

Perhaps  there  never  was  a  smaller  entry  and  slair« 
case,  than  the  entry  and  staircase  of  Miss  Tox's  house. 
Perhaps,  taken  altogether,  from  top  to  bottom,  it  was 
tiie  most  inconvenient  little  house  in  England,  and  the 
crook v.dest ;  but  then.  Miss  Tox  said,  what  a  situation ) 
There  was  very  little  daylight  to  be  got  there  in  the 
sinter:  no  sun  at  the  best  of  times:  air  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  traffic  was  walled  out.  Still  Miss  Tex 
said,  think  of  the  situation  !  So  said  the  blue-fkctd 
niajor,  whose  eyes  were  starting  out  of  his  head :  who 
^-loried  in  Princess's-place :  and  who   delighted   to  tun? 


130  DOMUEY  AND  SON. 

Ihe  convc/'ation  at  his  club,  whenever  he  could,  to  somo 
thing  connected  with  some  of  the  great  people  in  the 
great  street  round  the  corner,  that  he  might  have  the 
eatisfaclion  of  saying  they  were  his  neighbors. 

The  dingy  tenement  inhabited  by  Miss  Tox  was  her 
own  ;  having  been  devised  and  bequeathed  to  her  by  the 
deceased  owner  of  the  fishy  eye  in  the  locket,  of  whom  a 
miniature  portrait,  with  a  powdered  head  and  a  pigtail, 
balanced  the  kettle-holder  on  opposite  sides  of  the  parlor 
Gr*'-place.  The  greater  part  of  the  furniture  was  of  the 
powdered  head  and  pigtail  period  :  comprising  a  plate- 
warmer,  always  languishing  and  sitrawling  its  four  at- 
tenuated bow  legs  in  somebody's  way ;  and  an  obsolete 
harpsichord,  illuminated  round  the  maker's  name  with  a 
painted  garland  of  sweet  peas. 

Allhough  Major  Bagstock  had  arrived  at  what  is 
called  in  polite  literature,  the  grand  meridian  of  life, 
and  was  proceeding  on  his  journey  down-hill  with  hardly 
any  throat,  and  a  very  rigid  pair  of  jaw-bones,  and  long- 
flapped  elephantine  ears,  and  his  eyes  and  complexion  in 
tlie  stJite  of  artificial  excitement  already  mentioned,  he 
was  mightily  proud  of  awakening  an  interest  in  Miss 
Tox,  and  tickled  his  vanity  with  the  fiction  that  she  was 
a  splendid  woman  who  had  her  eye  on  him.  This  he 
had  several  times  hinted  at  the  club :  in  connection  with 
little  jocularities,  of  which  old  Joe  Bagstock,  old  Joey 
Bagstock,  old  J,  Bagstock,  old  Josh  Bagstock,  or  so  forth, 
was  the  perpet»»?.l  theme :  it  being,  as  it  were,  the  rcajcr's 
Eironghold  ard  ^lonjon-keep  of  light  humor,  to  be  on  the 
most  fam'liar  t/>.rms  with  his  own  name. 

"Joey  B.,  Kir,"  the  major  would  say,  with  a  flourish 
of  his  w»lkvi«g-stick,  "  is  worth  a  dozen  of  you.  If  you 
uad  a  f'3«'  more  of  the  Bag>tock  breed  among  you.  sir. 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  131 

jrou'd  be  none  the  worse  for  it.  Old  Joe,  sir,  needn't 
look  far  for  a  wife  even  now,  if  he  was  on  the  look- 
out ;  but  he's  hard-hearted,  sir,  is  Joe  —  he's  tough,  sir, 
tough,  and  de-vilish  sly  ! "  After  such  a  declaration 
wheezing  sounds  would  be  heard ;  and  the  major's  blue 
would  deepen  into  purple,  while  his  eyes  strained  an 
started  convulsively. 

Notwithstanding  his  very  liberal  laudation  of  him- 
self, however,  the  major  was  selfish.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  there  ever  was  a  more  entirely  selfish  person 
at  heart ;  or  at  stomach  is  perhaps  a  better  expression, 
seeing  that  he  was  more  decidedly  endowed  with  that 
latter  organ  than  with  the  former.  He  had  no  idea  of 
being  overlooked  or  slighted  by  anybody ;  least  of  all, 
had  he  the  remotest  comprehension  of  being  overlooked 
and  slighted  by  Miss  Tox. 

And  yet.  Miss  Tox,  as  it  appeared,  forgot  him  — 
gradually  forgot  him.  She  began  to  forget  him  soon 
after  her  discovery  of  the  Toodle  family.  She  continued 
to  forget  him  up  to  the  time  of  the  christening.  She 
went  on  forgetting  him  with  compound  iiiterest  after 
that.  Something  or  somebody  had  superseded  him  as 
a  source  of  interest. 

"  Good-morning,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  meeting  Miss 
I'ox  in  Princess's-place,  some  weeks  after  the  changes 
chronicled  in  the  last  chapter. 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox ;  very  coldly. 

"  Joe  Bagstock,  ma'ara,"  observed  the  major,  with  his 
usual  gallantry,  "  has  not  had  the  happiness  of  bowing 
to  you  at  your  window,  for  a  considerable  period.  Joe 
has  been  hardly  used,  ma'am.  His  sun  has  been  behind 
a  cloud. 

Miss  Tox  inclined  her  head  ;  but  very  coldly  indeed 


182  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  Joe's  luminary  has  been  out  of  town  ma'am,  per- 
haps," inquired  the  major. 

"  I  ?  out  of  town  ?  oh  no,  I  have  not  been  out  of 
town,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I  have  been  much  engaged 
lately.  My  time  is  nearly  all  devoted  to  some  very  in- 
timate friends.  I  am  afraid  I  have  none  to  spare,  even 
now.     Good-morning,  sir  !  " 

As  Miss  Tox,  with  her  most  fascinating  step  and  car- 
riage; disap{>eared  from  Princess's-place,  the  major  stood 
looking  after  her  with  a  bluer  face  than  ever :  mutter- 
ing and  growling  some  not  at  all  complimentary  re- 
marks. 

"  Why,  damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  rolling  his  lob- 
ster eyes  round  and  round  Princess's-place,  and  apostro- 
phizing its  fragrant  air,  "  six  months  ago,  the  woman 
loved  the  ground  Josh  Bagstock  walked  on.  What's  the 
meaning  of  it  ?  " 

The  major  decided,  after  some  consideration,  that  it 
meant  man-traps  ;  that  it  meant  plotting  and  snaring ; 
that  Miss  Tox  was  digging  pitfalls.  "  But  you  won't 
catch  Joe,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.  "  He's  tough,  ma'am, 
tough,  is  J.  B.  Tough,  and  de-vilish  sly  !  "  over  which 
reflection  he  chuckled  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

But  still,  when  that  day  and  many  other  days  were 
gone  and  past,  it  seemed  that  Miss  Tox  took  no  heed 
whatever  of  the  major,  and  thought  nothing  at  all  about 
him.  She  had  been  wont,  once  upon  a  time,  to  look  out 
ai  one  of  her  little  dark  windows  by  accident,  and  blush- 
ingly  return  the  major's  greeting ;  but  now,  she  never 
gave  the  major  a  chance,  and  cared  nothing  at  all 
whether  he  looked  over  the  way  or  not.  Other  changes 
had  come  to  pass  too.  The  major,  standing  in  the  shade 
cf  his  own  apartment,  could  make  out   that  an  air  cf 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  133 

greater  smartness  had  recently  come  over  Miss  Tox'a 
house  ;  that  a  new  cage  with  gilded  wires  had  been 
provided  for  the  ancient  little  canary  bird ;  that  diver^ 
ornaments,  cut  out  of  colored  card-boards  and  j)aper, 
seemed  to  decorate  the  chimney-piece  and  tables ;  that  a 
plant  or  two  had  suddenly  sprung  up  in  the  windows ; 
that  Miss  Tox  occasionally  practised  on  the  harpsichord^ 
whose  garland  of  sweet  peas  was  always  displayed  os- 
tentatiously, crowned  with  the  Copenhagen  and  Bird 
Waltzes  in  a  music-book  of  Miss  Tox's  own  copying. 

Over  and  above  all  this,  Miss  Tox  had  long  been 
dressed  with  uncommon  care  and  elegance  in  slight 
mourning.  But  this  helped  the  major  out  of  his  dif- 
ficulty ;  and  he  determined  within  himself  that  she  had 
come  info  a  small  legacy,  and  grown  proud. 

It  was  on  the  very  next  day  after  he  had  eased  his 
mind  by  arriving  at  this  decision,  that  the  major,  sit- 
ting at  his  breakfast,  saw  an  apparition  so  tremendous 
and  wonderful  in  Miss  Tox's  little  drawing-room,  that  he 
remained  for  some  time  rooted  to  his  chair ;  then,  rush- 
ing into  the  next  room  returned  with  a  double-barrelled 
opera-glass,  through  which  he  surveyed  it  intently  for 
some  minutes. 

"  It's  a  Baby,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shutting  up  the 
jjlass  again,  "  for  fifty  thousand  pounds !  " 

The  major  couldn't  forget  it.  He  could  do  nothing 
but  whistle,  and  stare  to  that  extent,  that  his  eyes  com- 
pared with  what  they  now  became,  had  been  in  former 
times  quite  cavernous  and  sunken.  Day  after  day,  twcs 
three,  four  times  a  week,  this  baby  reappeared.  Tlie 
:?iajor  continued  to  stare  and  whistle.  To  all  other  in- 
tents and  purposes  he  was  alone  in  Princess's-place, 
Miss  Tox  had  ceased  to  mind  what  he  did.     He  raigbt 


134  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

have  been  black  as  well  as  blue,  and  it  would  have  been 
of  no  consequence  to  her. 

The  perseverance  with  which  she  walked  out  of  Prin- 
cess's-place  to  fetch  this  baby  and  its  nurse,  and  walked 
back  with  them,  and  walked  home  with  them  again,  and 
continually  mounted  guard  over  them  ;  and  the  perse 
verance  with  which  she  nursed  it  herself,  and  fed  it,  and 
played  with  it,  and  froze  its  young  blood  with  airs  upon 
the  harpsichord  ;  was  extraordinary.  At  about  the  same 
period  too,  she  was  seized  with  a  passion  for  looking  at 
a  certain  bracelet ;  also  with  a  passion  for  looking  at 
the  moon,  of  which  she  would  take  long  observations 
from  her  chamber-window.  But  whatever  she  looked 
at ;  sun,  moon,  stars,  or  bracelets ;  she  looked  no  more 
at  the  major.  And  the  major  whistled,  and  stared,  and 
wondered,  and  dodged  about  his  room,  and  could  make 
nothing  of  it. 

"  You'll  quite  win  my  brother  Paul's  heart,  and  that's 
the  truth,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  one  day. 

Miss  Tox  turned  pale. 

"  He  grows  more  like  Paul  every  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick. 

Miss  Tox  returned  no  other  reply  than  by  taking  the 
little  Paul  in  her  arras,  and  making  his  cockade  per- 
fectly flat  and  limp  with  her  caresses. 

"  His  mother,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  whose  ac- 
quaintance I  was  to  have  made  through  you,  does  he 
Bt  all  resemble  her  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Louisa. 

"  She  was  —  she  was  pretty,  I  believe?  '  faUerad  Miss 
Tox. 

*'  Why,  poor  dear  Fanny  was  interesting,"  said  Mrs. 
Ohick,  after  some  judicial  consideration.    "  Certainly  in* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  135 

lerer'ting.  Slie  Iiad  not  that  air  of  commanding  supe- 
riority wliicli  one  would  somehow  expect,  ahnost  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  find  in  my  brother's  wife  ;  nor  had 
eiie  that  strength  and  vigor  of  mind  which  such  a  man 
requires." 

Miss  Tox  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"But  siie  was  pleasing;"  said  Mrs.  Cliick  :  "ex- 
tremely so.  And  she  meant !  —  oh,  dear,  how  well  poor 
fanny  meant  !  " 

"  You  angel  1 "  cried  Miss  Tox  to  little  Paul.  "  You 
picture  of  your  own  papa ! " 

If  the  major  could  have  known  how  many  hopes  and 
ventures,  what  a  multitude  of  plans  and  speculations, 
rested  on  that  baby  head ;  and  cotild  have  seen  them 
hovering,  in  all  their  heterogeneous  confusion  and  dis- 
order, round  the  puckered  cap  of  the  unconscious  little 
Paul ;  he  might  have  stared  indeed.  Then  would  he 
have  recognized,  among  the  crowd,  some  few  ambitious 
motes  and  beams  belonging  to  Miss  Tox:  then  would 
he  perhaps  have  understood  the  nature  of  that  lady's 
faltering  investment  in  the  Dombey  Firm. 

If  the  child  himself  could  have  awakened  in  the  night, 
and  seen,  gathered  about  his  cradle-curtains,  faint  re- 
flections of  the  dreams  that  other  people  had  of  him, 
they  might  have  scared  him,  with  good  reason.  But  he 
slumbered  on,  alike  unconscious  of  the  kind  intentions 
of  Miss  Tox,  the  wonder  of  the  major,  the  early  soi^ 
fows  of  his  sister,  and  the  sterner  visions  of  his  fiat  her; 
&ud  innocent  that  any  spot  of  earth  contained  a  Dom- 
bey or  a  SoE 


136  DOMBEY  AND  SOli. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 
Paul's  fdrtuer  progress,  growth,  and  character. 

Beneath  the  watching  and  attentive  eyes  of  Time 
—  so  far  another  Major  —  Paul's  slumbers  gradually 
changed.  More  and  more  light  broke  in  upon  them ; 
di^tincter  and  distincter  dreams  disturbed  them  ;  an  ac- 
cumuhiting  crowd  of  objects  and  impressions  swarmed 
alx)iit  his  rest;  and  so  he  passed  from  babyhood  to 
childhood,  and  became  a  talking,  walking,  wondering 
Dorabey. 

On  the  downfall  and  banishment  of  Richards,  the  nur- 
sery may  be  said  to  have  been  put  into  commission  ;  as  a 
I'ubUc  Department  is  sometimes,  when  no  individual 
Atlas  can  be  found  to  support  it.  Th.i  Commissioners 
were,  of  course,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox :  who  de- 
voted themselves  to  their  duties  with  such  astonishing 
ardor  that  Major  Bagstock  had  every  day  some  new  re- 
minder of  his  being  forsaken,  while  Mr.  Chick,  bereft  of 
domestic  supervision,  cast  himself  upon  the  gay  world, 
dined  at  clubs  and  coffee-houses,  smelt  of  smoke  on  three 
distinct  occasions,  went  to  the  play  by  himself,  and  in 
phort,  loosened  (as  Mrs.  Chick  once  told  him)  every 
locial  bond,  and  moral  obligation. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  his  early  promise,  all  this  vigilance 
and  care  could  not  make  little  Paul  a  thriving  boy. 
Naturally  delicate,  perhaps,  he  pined  and  wasted  aflei 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  137 

tlic  aismissal  ot  His  nurse,  and,  for  a  long  time,  seemed 
but  to  wait  his  opportunity  of  gliding  through  their 
hands,  and  seeking  his  lost  mother.  This  dangerous 
ground  in  his  steeple-chase  towards  manhood  passed,  he 
Biill  found  it  very  rough  riding,  and  was  grievously  beset 
b")  all  the  obstacles  in  his  course.  Every  tooth  was  a 
breakneck  fence,  and  every  pimple  in  the  measles  ^ 
Btone  wall  to  him.  He  was  down  in  every  fit  of  the 
whooping-cough,  and  rolled  upon  and  crushed  by  a  whole 
field  of  small  diseases,  that  came  trooping  on  each  other's 
heels  to  prevent  his  getting  up  again.  Some  bird  of 
prey  got  into  his  throat  instead  of  the  thrush ;  and  the 
very  chickens  turning  ferocious  —  if  they  Itave  anything 
to  do  with  that  infant  malady  to  which  they  lend  their 
name  —  worried  him  like  tiger-cats. 

The  chill  of  Paul's  christening  had  struck  home,  per- 
haps to  some  sensitive  part  of  his  nature,  which  could 
not  recover  itself  in  the  cold  shade  of  his  father ;  but  he 
was  an  unfortunate  child  from  that  day.  Mrs.  Wickam 
often  said  she  never  see  a  dear  so  put  upon. 

Mrs.  Wickam  was  a  waiter's  wife — which  would  seem 
equivalent  to  being  any  other  man's  widow  —  whose  ap- 
plication for  an  engagement  in  Mr.  Dombey's  service  had 
been  favorably  considered,  on  account  of  the  apparent 
impossibility  of  her  having  any  followers,  or  any  one  to 
follow  ;  and  who,  from  within  a  day  or  two  of  Panl's 
sharp  weaning,  had  been  engaged  as  his  nurse.  Mrs. 
Wickam  was  a  meek  woman,  of  a  fair  complexion,  with 
lier  eyebrows  always  elevated,  and  her  head  always 
drooping ;  who  was  always  i-eady  to  pity  herself,  or  to  be 
pitied,  or  to  pity  anybody  else ;  and  who  had  a  surprising 
natural  gift  of  viewing  all  subjects  in  an  utterly  forlorn 
and  pitiable  light,  and  bringing  dreadful   precedents  to 


138  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

I>ear  upon  them,  and  deriving  the  greatest  consolation 
firora  the  exercise  of  that  talent. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe,  that  no  touch  of  this 
quality  ever  reached  the  magnificent  knowledge  of  Mr. 

orabey.  It  would  have  been  remarkable,  indeed,  if 
Rny  had ;  when  no  one  in  the  house  —  not  even  Mr& 
Chick  or  Miss  Tox  —  dared  ever  whisper  to  him  »hat 
there  had,  on  any  one  occasion,  been  the  least  reason  for 
uneasiness  in  reference  to  little  Paul.  He  had  settled, 
within  himself,  that  the  child  must  necessarily  pa.-5s  through 
a  certain  routine  of  minor  maladies,  and  that  the  sooner 
he  did  so  the  better.  If  he  could  have  bought  him  off, 
or  provided  a  substitute,  as  in  the  case  of  an  unlucky 
drawing  for  the  militia,  he  would  have  been  glad  to  do 
so  on  liberal  terms.  But  as  this  was  not  feasible,  he 
mereiy  wondered,  in  his  haughty  manner,  now  and  then, 
what  Nature  meant  by  it ;  and  comforted  himself  with 
the  reflection  that  there  was  another  milestone  passed 
upon  the  road,  and  that  the  gi'eat  end  of  the  journey  lay 
so  much  the  nearer.  For  the  feeling  uppermost  in  hid 
mind,  now  and  constantly  intensifying,  and  increasing  in 
it  as  Paul  grew  older,  was  impatieiice.  Impatience  for 
the  time  to  come,  when  his  visions  of  their  united  conse- 
quence and  grandeur  would  be  triumphantly  realized. 

Some  philosophers  tell  us  that  selfishness  is  at  the  root 
of  our  best  loves  and  affections.  Mr.  Dombey's  young 
child  was,  from  the  beginning,  so  distinctly  important  to 
liim  as  a  part  of  his  own  greatness,  or  (which  is  the 
Eame  thing)  of  the  greatness  of  Dombey  and  Son,  that 
there  is  no  doubt  his  parental  affection  might  have  been 
easily  traced,  like  many  a  goodly  superstructure  -of  fair 
fame,  to  a  very  low  foundation.  But  he  loved  his  son 
i?ith  all  the  love  he  had.     If  there  were  a  waim  plact 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  13J 

tn  his  frosty  heart,  his  son  occupied  it ;  if  its  very  hard 
surface  could  receive  the  impression  of  any  image, 
the  image  of  that  son  was  there  ;  though  not  so  much  as 
an  infant,  or  as  a  boy,  but  as  a  grown  man  —  the  "  Son  " 
of  the  Firm.  Therefore  he  was  impatient  to  advance 
into  the  future,  and  to  hurry  over  the  intervening  pas* 
Bages  of  his  history.  Therefore  he  had  little  or  no  anx 
iety  about  them,  in  spite  of  his  love  ;  feeling  as  if  the 
boy  had  a  charmed  life,  and  must  become  the  man  wilh 
whom  he  held  such  constant  communication  in  hi3 
thouglits,  and^  for  whom  he  planned  and  projected,  as 
for  an  existing  reality,  every  day. 

Ni.  Thus  Paul  grew  to  be  nearly  five  years  old.  lie  was 
a  pretty  little  fellow  ;  though  there  was  something  wan 
and  wistful  in  his  small  face,  that  gave  occasion  to  many 
significant  shakes  of  Mrs.  Wickam's  head,  and  many 
long-drawn  inspirations  of  Mrs.  Wickam's  breath.  His 
temper  gave  abundant  promise  of  being  imperious  in 
after-life ;  and  he  had  as  hopeful  an  apprehension  of  his 
own  importance,  and  the  rightful  subservience  of  all 
other  things  and  persons  to  it,  as  heart  could  desire.  He 
w^as  childish  and  sportive  enough  at  times,  and  not  of  a 
Bullen  disposition  ;  but  he  had  a  strange  old-fashioned, 
thoughtful  way,  at  other  times,  of  sitting  brooding  in  his 
miniature  arm-chair,  when  he  looked  (and  talked)  like 
one  of  those  terrible  little  Beings  in  the  Fairy  tales, 
who,  at  a  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  years  of 
age,  fantastically  represent  the  children  for  whom  th^y 
have  been  substituted.  He  would  frequently  be  stricken 
with  this  precocious  mood  up-stairs  in  the  nursery  ;  and 
Rrould  sometimes  lapse  into  it  suddenly,  exclaiming  that 
he  was  tired :  even  while  playing  with  Florence,  or 
driving  Miss  Tox  in   single   harness.     But  at  no   tim« 


140  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

did  he  fall  into  it  so  surely,  as  when,  his  little  chair  being 
carried  down  into  his  father's  room,  he  sat  there  with 
him  after  dinner,  by  the  fire.  They  were  the  strangest 
pair  at  such  a  time  that  ever  firelight  shone  upon.  Mr. 
Dombey  so  erect  and  solemn,  gazing  at  the  blaze ;  his 
little  image,  with  an  old,  old,  face,  peering  into  the  red 
perspective  with  the  fixed  and  rapt  attention  of  a  sage. 
Mr.  Dombey  entertaining  complicated  worldly  schemes 
and  plans ;  the  little  image  entertaining  Heaven  knows 
what  wild  fancies,  half-formed  thoughts,  and  wandering 
Bpeculations.  Mr.  Dombey  stiff  with  starch  and  arro- 
gance ;  the  little  image  by  inheritance,  and  in  uncon- 
Bcious  imitation.  The  two  so  very  much  alike,  and  yet 
80  monstrously  contrasted. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  they  had  both  been 
perfectly  quiet  for  a  long  time,  and  Mr.  Dombey  only 
knew  that  the  child  was  awake  by  t)Ccasionally  glancing 
at  his  eye,  where  the  bright  fire  was  sparkling  like  a 
jewel,  little  Paul  broke  silence  thus  :  — 

"  Papa  !  what's  money  ?  " 

The  abrupt  question  had  such  immediate  reference  to 
the  subject  of  Mr.  Dombey's  thoughts,  that  Mr.  Dombey 
was  quite  disconcerted. 

"  What  is  money,  Paul  ?  "  he  answered.     "  Money  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child,  laying  his  hands  upon  the  el- 
bows of  his  little  chair,  and  turning  the  old  face  up  tow« 
u*ds  Mr.  Dombey's  ;  "  what  is  money  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a  difficulty.  He  would  have 
Bked  to  give  him  some  explanation  involving  the  terms 
circulating-medium,  currency,  depreciation  of  currency, 
paper,  bullion,  rates  of  exchange,  value  of  precious  met- 
als in  the  market,  and  so  forth  ;  but  looking  down  at  the 
little  chair,  and  seeing  whai  a  long  way  down  it  was,  he 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  141 

answered :  "  Gold,  and  silver,  and  copper.  Guincaa, 
shillings,  half-pence.     You  know  what  they  are  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  what  they  are,"  said  Paul.  "  I  don't 
mean  that,  papa.     I  mean  what's  money  after  all." 

Heaven  and  Earth,  how  old  his  face  was  as  he  turned 
it  np  again  towards  his  father's  ! 

"  What  is  money  after  all !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  back- 
ing his  chair  a  little,  that  he  might  the  better  gaze  in 
sheer  amazement  at  the  presumptuous  atom  that  pro- 
pounded such  an  inquiry. 

"  I  mean,  papa,  what  can  it  do  ?  "  returned  Paul,  fold- 
ing his  arms  (they  were  hardly  long  enough  to  fold),  and 
looking  at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him,  and  at  the  fire,  and  up 
at  him  again. 

Mr.  Dombey  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  former  place, 
and  patted  him  on  the  head.  "  You'll  know  better  by 
and  by,  my  man,"  he  said.  "  Money,  Paul,  can  do  any- 
thing." He  took  hold  of  the  little  hand,  and  beat  ;t 
softly  against  one  of  his  own,  as  he  said  so. 

But  Paul  got  his  hand  free  as  soon  as  he  could ;  and 
rubbing  it  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  elbow  of  ids  chair,  as 
if  his  wit  were  in  the  palm,  and  he  were  sharpening  it 
—  and  looking  at  the  fire  again,  as  though  the  fire  had 
been  his  adviser  and  prompter  —  repeated,  after  a  short 
pause : — 

"  Anything,  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Anything  —  almost."  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Anything  means  everything,  don't  it,  papa  ?  "  asked 
his  son  :  not  observing,  or  possibly  not  understanding,  the 
Qualification. 

"  It  inoiudes  it :  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Why  didn't  money  save  me  my  mama?'""  returned 
(he  child.     "  It  isn't  cruel,  is  it  ?  " 


142  DOMBE\   AND  SON. 

"  Cruel ! "  said  Mr.  Dombej,  settling  liis  neckcloth, 
and  seeming  to  resent  the  idea.  "  No.  A  good  thing 
can't  be  cruel." 

"  If  it's  a  good  thing,  and  can  do  nnytliing,"  said  the 
little  fellow,  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  back  at  the  fire, 
"  I  wonder  why  it  didn't  save  rae  nay  mama." 

He  didn't  ask  the  question  of  his  father  this  timn. 
Perhaps  he  had  seen,  with  a  child's  quickness,  that  it 
had  already  made  his  father  uncomfortable.  But  he  re- 
peated the  thought  aloud,  as  if  it  were  quite  an  old  one 
to  him,  and  had  troubled  him  very  much  ;  and  sat  with 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  still  cogitating  and  looking 
for  an  explanation  in  the  fire. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  recovered  from  his  sarprise,  not 
tb  say  his  alarm  (for  it  was  the  very  first  occasion  on 
which  the  child  had  ever  broached  the  subject  of  his 
mother  to  him,  though  he  had  had  him  sitting  by  his 
side,  in  this  same  manner,  evening  after  evening),  ex- 
pounded to  him  how  that  money,  though  a  very  potent 
spirit,  never  to  be  disparaged  on  any  account  whatever, 
could  not  keep  people  alive  whose  time  was  come  to  die ; 
and  how  that  we  must  all  die,  unfortunately,  even  in  the 
city,  though  we  were  never  so  rich.  But  how  that  money 
caused  us  to  be  honored,  feared,  respected,  courted,  and 
admired,  and  made  us  powerful  and  glorious  in  the  eyes 
of  all  men  ;  and  how  that  it  could,  very  often,  even  keep 
off  death,  for  a  long  time  together.  How,  for  example 
it  had  secured  to  his  mama  the  services  of  Mr.  I'ilkin?-, 
by  which  he,  Paul,  had  often  profited  himself;  likewise 
of  the  great  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  whom  he  had  never 
known.  And  how  it  could  do  all,  that  could  be  done. 
This,  with  more  to  the  same  purpose,  Mr.  Dombey  m- 
stilled  into  the  mind  of  his  son,  who  listened  attentivuty 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  H8 

and  seemed  to  understand  the  greater  part  of  what  was 
said  to  him. 

"  It  Ciui't  make  me  strong  and  quite  well,  eithe:>papa; 
can  it  ?  "  Ubked  Paul,  after  a  short  silence  ;  rubbing  his 
liny  hands. 

"  Wlij,  you  are  strong  and  quite  well,"  returned  Mr- 
Dombey.     "  Are  you  not .''  " 

Oh !  the  age  of  the  face  that  was  turned  ip  again, 
with  an  expression,  half  of  melancholy,  hdf  of  slyness, 
jn  it! 

"  You  are  as  strong  and  well  as  such  little  people 
usually  are  ?     Eh  ?  ".  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Florence  is  older  than  I  am,  but  I'm  not  as  strong 
Hnd  well  as  Florence,  I  know,"  returned  the  child ;  "  but 
1  believe  that  when  Florence  was  as  little  as  nae,  she 
could  play  a  great  deal  longer  at  a  time  without  tiring 
herself.  I  am  so  tired  sometimes,"  said  little  Paul, 
warming  his  hands,  and  looking  in  between  the  bars  of 
the  grate,  as  if  some  ghostly  puppet-show  were  perform- 
ing there,  "  and  my  bones  ache  so  (Wickam  says  it's  my 
bones),  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Ay  !  But  that's  at  night,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  draw- 
ing his  own  chair  closer  to  his  son's,  and  laying  his  hand 
gently  on  his  back ;  "  little  people  should  be  tired  at 
Dight,  for  then  they  sleep  well." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  at  night,  papa,"  returned  the  child,  "  it's 
u  the  day  ;  and  I  lie  down  in  Florence's  lap,  and  she 
sings  to  me.  At  night  I  dream  about  such  cu-ri-ous 
things  1  " 

And  he  went  ou,  warming  his  hands  again,  and  think 
'•og  about  them,  like  an  old  man  or  a  young  goblin. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  so  astonished,  and  so  uncomfortable, 
ind  so  perfectly  at  a  loss  how  to  pursue  the  conversation, 


144  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

that  he  could  only  sit  looking  at  his  son  by  the  light  of 
the  fire,  with  his  hand  resting  on  his  back,  as  if  it  were 
detained  there  by  some  magnetic  attraction.  Once  he 
advanced  his  other  hand,  and  turned  the  contemplative 
face  towards  his  own  for  a  moment.  But  it  sought  the 
fire  again  as  soon  as  he  released  it ;  and  remained,  ad- 
dressed towards  the  flickering  blaze,  until  the  nurse 
appeared,  to  summon  him  to  bed. 

**  I  want  Florence  to  come  for  me,"  said  Paul. 

"  "Won't  you  come  with  your  poor  Nurse  "Wickam, 
Master  Paul  ? "  inquired  that  attendant,  with  great 
pathos. 

"  No,  I  won't,"  replied  Paul,  composing  himself  in  his 
arm-chair  again,  like  the  master  of  tlie  house. 

Invoking  a  blessing  upon  his  innocence,  Mrs.  Wickam 
withdrew,  and  presently  Florence  appeared  in  her  stead. 
The  child  immediately  started  up  with  sudden  readiness 
and  animation,  and  raised  towards  his  father  in  bidding 
him  good-night,  a  countenance  so  much  brighter,  so  much 
younger,  and  so  much  more  childlike  altogether,  that 
Mr.  Dorabey,  while  he  felt  greatly  reassured  by  the 
change,  was  quite  amazed  at  it.. 

After  they  had  left  the  room  together,  he  thought  he 
heard  a  soft  voice  singing ;  and  remembering  that  Paul 
had  said  his  sister  oung  to  him,  he  had  the  curiosity  to 
open  the  door  and  listen,  and  look  after  them.  She  waa 
toiling  up  the  great,  wide,  vacant  staircase,  with  him  in 
her  arms  ;  his  head  was  lying  on  her  shoulder,  one  of  his 
arms  tiirown  negligently  round  her  neck.  So  they  went, 
foiling  up  ;  she  singing  all  the  way,  and  Paul  somctiin'^a  [ 
crooning  out  a  feeble  accompaniment.  Mr.  Dorabe)' 
looked  after  them  until  they  reached  the  top  of  th«  stair- 
case —  not  without  halting  to  rest  by  the  way  —  ajid 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  145 

passed  out  of  his  sight ;  and  then  he  still  stood  gazing 
upwards,  until  the  dull  rays  of  the  moon,  ghramering  in 
a  melancholy  manner  through  the  dim  skylight,  sent  him 
back  to  his  own  room. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  convoked  in  council  at 
dinner  next  day;  and  when  the  cloth  was  removed,  Mv 
Dombey  opened  the  proceedings  by  requiring  to  be  in 
formed,  without  any  gloss  or  reservation,  whether  there 
was  anything  the  matter  with  Paul,  and  what  Mr.  Pil- 
kins  said  about  him. 

"  For  the  child  is  hardly,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  aa 
stout  as  I  could  wish." 

"  With  your  usual  happy  discrimination,  ray  dear 
Paul,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  "  you  have  hit  the  point  at 
once.  Our  darling  is  not  altogether  as  stout  as  we  could 
wish.  The  fact  is,  that  his  mind  is  too  much  for  him. 
His  soul  is  a  great  deal  too  large  for  his  frame.  I  am 
sure  the  way  in  which  that  dear  child  talks  ! "  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  shaking  her  head  ;  "  no  one  woukl  believe.  His 
expressions,  Lucretia,  only  yesterday  upon  the  subject 
of  funerals  !  "  — 

"  I  am  ai'raid,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  interrupting  her 
testily,  "  that  some  of  those  persons  up-stairs  suggest  im- 
proper subjects  to  the  child.  He  was  speaking  to  me 
last  night  about  his  —  about  his  bones,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, laying  an  irritated  stress  upon  the  word.  "  What 
on  earth  has  anybody  to  do  with  the  —  with  the  —  boneo 
of  my  son  ?     He  is  not  a  living  skeleton,  I  su[)pose." 

"  Very  far  from  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  witii  unspoak- 
ftble  expression. 

"  I  ho[)e  so,"  returned  her  brother.  "  Funerals  again  I 
who  talks  to  the  child  of  funerals  ?  We  are  not  under- 
takers, or  mutes,  or  grave-diggers,  I  believe." 

VOL.   1.  10 


146  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Very  far  from  it,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  th^ 
same  profound  expression  as  before. 

"  Then  who  puts  such  things  into  his  head  ?  "  said  INIr 
Dombey.  "  Really  I  was  quite  dismayed  and  shocked 
last  night.    Who  puts  such  things  into  his  head,  Louisa?*' 

^  My  dear  Paul,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "  it  is  of  no  use  inquiring.  I  do  not  think,  I  will 
tell  you  candidly,  tliat  Wickam  is  a  pennon  of  very  cheer- 
ful spirit,  or  what  one  would  call  a  "  — 

"  A  daughter  of  Momus,"'Miss  Tox  softly  suggested. 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Mrs.  Chick ;  '•  but  she  is  exceed- 
ingly attentive  and  useful,  and  not  at  all  presumptuous; 
indeed  I  never  saw  a  more  biddable  woman.  If  the  dear 
child,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was 
summing  up  what  had  been  previously  quite  agreed 
upon,  instead  of  saying  it  all  for  the  first  time,  "  is  a 
little  weakened  by  that  last  attack,  and  is  not  in  quite 
such  vigorous  health  as  we  could  wish  ;  and  if  he  has 
some  temporary  weakness  in  his  system,  and  does  oc- 
casionally seem  about  to  lose,  for  the  moment,  the  use 
of  iiis"  — 

Mrs.  Chick  was  afraid  to  say  limbs,  after  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  recent  objection  to  bones,  and  therefore  waited  for 
B  suggestion  from  Miss  Tox,  who,  true  to  her  ofBce, 
hazarded  "  members." 

"  INIembers  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey. 

*'  I  think  the  medical  gentleman  mentioned  lega  this 
morning,  my  dear  Louisa  ;  did  he  not  ?  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

-  Why,  of  course  he  did,  my  love,"  retorted  Mra. 
Chirk,  mildly  reproachful.  "  How  can  you  ask  me  ? 
You  heard  him.  I  say,  if  our  dear  Paul  should  lose, 
for  the  moment,  the  use  of  his  legs,  these  are  casualties 
common  to  many  children  at  his  time  of  life,  and  not  to 


DOMBKY  AND  SON.  147 

he  prevented  by  any  care  or  caution.  The  sooner  you 
anderstand  that,  Paul,  and  admit  that,  the  better." 

"  Surely  you  must  know,  Louisa,"  observed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  "  that  I  don't  question  your  natural  devotion  to,  and 
natural  regard  for,  the  future  head  of  my  house.  Mr. 
Pilkins  saw  Paul  this  mornino;,  I  believe  ? "  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Yes,  he  did,"  returned  his  sister.  "  Miss  Tox  and 
myself  were  present.  Miss  Tox  and  myself  are  always 
present.  We  make  a  point  of  it.  Mr.  Pilkins  haa  seen 
him  for  some  days  past,  and  a  very  clever  man  I  believe 
him  to  be.  He  says  it  is  nothing  to  speak  of;  which  I 
can  confirm,  if  that  is  any  consolation  ;  but  he  recom- 
mended, to-day,  sea-air.  Very  wisely,  Paul,  I  feel  con- 
vinced." 

"  Sea-air,"  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  his  sis- 
ter. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  made  uneasy  by,  in  that," 
said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  My  George  and  Frederick  were  both 
ordered  sea-air,  when  they  were  about  his  age ;  and  I 
have  been  ordered  it  myself  a  great  many  times.  I 
quite  agree  with  you,  Paul,  that  perhaps  topics  may  be 
incautiously  mentioned  up-stairs  before  him,  which  it 
would  be  as  well  for  his  little  mind  not  to  expatiate 
upon  ;  but  I  really  don't  see  how  that  is  to  be  helped  in 
the  case  of  a  child  of  his  quickness.  If  he  were  a 
common  child,  there  would  be  nothing  in  it.  I  must  say 
I  think,  with  Miss  Tox,  that  a  short  absence  from  this 
house,  the  air  of  Brighton,  and  the  bodily  and  mental 
training  of  so  judicious  a  person  as  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  in- 
Biance  "  — 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Louisa  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey : 
aghast  at  this  familiar  introduction  of  a  name  he  had 
Clever  he«jrd  before. 


148  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,  ray  dear  Paul,"  returned  bis  sidter,  "  ii 
an  elderly  lady  —  Miss  Tox  knows  her  whole  history  — 
who  has  for  some  time  devoted  all  the  energies  of  her 
mind,  with  the  greatest  success,  to  the  study  and  treat- 
ment of  infancy,  and  who  has  been  extremely  well  con- 
nected. Her  husband  broke  his  heart  in  —  how  did  you 
say  her  husband  broke  his  heart,  my  dear  ?  I  forget  the 
precise  circumstances." 

*'  In  pumping  water  out  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,"  re- 
plied Miss  Tox. 

"  Not  being  a  Pumper  himself,  of  course,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  glancing  at  her  brother ;  and  it  really  did  seem 
necessary  to  offer  the  explanation,  for  Miss  Tox  had 
spoken  of  him  as  if  he  had  died  at  the  handle ;  "  but 
having  invested  money  in  the  speculation,  which  failed. 
I  believe  that  Mrs.  Pipchin's  management  of  children  i3 
quite  astonishing.  I  have  heard  it  commended  in  pri- 
vate circles  ever  since  I  was  —  dear  me  —  how  high  ! " 
Mrs.  Chick's  eye  wandered  about  the  bookcase  near  the 
bust  of  Mr.  Pitt,  which  was  about  ten  feet  from  the 
ground. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  say  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  dear  sir," 
observed  Miss  Tox,  with  an  ingenuous  blush,  "  having 
been  so  pointedly  referred  to,  that  the  encomium  which 
has  been  passed  upon  her  by  your  sweet  sister  is  well 
merited.  Many  ladies  and  gentlemen,  now  grown  up  to 
ye  interesting  members  of  society,  have  been  indebted 
o  her  care.  The  humble  individual  who  addresses  you 
Was  once  under  her  charge.  I  believe  juvenile  nobility 
itself  is  no  stranger  to  her  establishment." 

"  Do  I  understand  that  this  respectable  matron  keeps 
Rn  establishment,  ISIiss  Tox  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey, 
condescendingly. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  149 

"  Why,  I  really  don't  know,"  rejoined  that  lady, 
"  whether  I  am  justified  in  calling  it  so.  It  is  not  a 
Preparatory  School  by  any  means.  Should  I  express 
my  meaning,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  peculiar  sweetness, 
"  if  I  designated  it  an  infantine  Boarding-House  of  a 
ver}'  select  description  ?  " 

"  On  an  exceedingly  limited  and  particular  scale,"  sog 
jested  Mr^.  Chick,  with  a  glance  at  her  brother. 

"Oh!  Exclusion  itself!  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

There  was  something  in  this.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  husband 
having  broken  his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines  was 
good.  It  had  a  rich  sound.  Besides,  Mr.  Dombey  was 
in  a  state  almost  amounting  to  consternation  at  the  idea 
of  Paul  remaining  where  he  was  one  hour  after  his  re- 
moval had  been  recommended  by  the  medical  practi- 
tioner. It  was  a  stoppage  and  delay  upon  the  road  the 
child  must  traverse,  slowly  at  the  best,  before  the  goal 
was  reached.  Their  recommendation  of  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had  great  weight  with  him ;  for  he  knew  that  they  were 
jealous  of  any  interference  with  their  charge,  and  he 
never  for  a  moment  took  it  into  account  that  they  might 
be  solicitous  to  divide  a  responsibility,  of  which  he  bad, 
a>  shown  just  now,  his  own  established  views.  Broke 
his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines,  mused  Mr.  Dombey. 
Well,  a  very  respectable  way  of  doing  it. 

"  Supposing  we  should  decide,  on  to-morrow's  inqui- 
ries, to  send  Paul  down  to  Brighton  to  this  lady,  who 
would  go  with  him  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey,  after  some 
reflection. 

"  I  don't  think  you  could  send  the  child  anywhere  al 
oresent  without  Florence,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his 
>ister.  hesitating.  "  It's  quite  an  infatuation  Avith  him 
lie's  \ery  young,  you  know,  and  has  his  fancies." 


ISO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Donibey  turned  his  head  away,  and  going  slowly 
to  the  bookcase,  and  unlocking  it,  brought  back  a  book 
to  read. 

"  Anybody  else,  Louisa  ?  "  he  said,  without  looking  up> 
and  turning  over  the  leaves. 

"  Wickam,  of  course.  Wickam  would  be  quite  suflB- 
cient,  I  should  say,"  returned  his  sister.  "  Paul  being  iu 
such  hands  as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  you  could  hai'dly  send 
anybody  who  would  be  a  further  check  upon  her.  You 
would  go  down  yourself  once  a  week  at  least,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dombey ;  and  sat  looking  at 
one  page  for  an  hour  afterwards,  without  reading  one 
word. 

This  celebrated  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a  marvellous  ill- 
favored,  ill-conditioned  old  lady,  of  a  stooping  figure, 
with  a  mottled  face,  like  bad  marble,  a  hook  nose,  and  a 
hard  gray  eye,  that  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  ham- 
mered at  on  an  anvil  without  sustaining  any  injury. 
Forty  years  at  least  had  ^elapsed  since  the  Peruvian 
mines  had  been  the  death  of  Mr.  Pipchin  ;  but  his  relict 
still  wore  black  bombazine,  of  such  a  lustreless,  deep,  dead, 
sombre  shade,  that  gas  itself  couldn't  light  her  up  after 
dark,  and  her  presence  was  a  quenclier  to  any  number 
of  candles.  She  was  generally  spoken  of  as  "  a  great 
manager "  of  children ;  and  the  secret  of  her  manage- 
ment, was,  to  give  them  everything  that  they  didn't  like, 
and  nothing  that  they  did  —  which  was  found  to  sweeten 
their  dispositions  very  much.  She  was  such  a  bitter  old 
lady,  that  one  was  tempted  to  believe  there  had  been 
?ome  mistake  in  the  application  of  the  Peruvian  ma- 
.•hineiy,  and  that  all  her  waters  of  gladness  and  miljj:  of 
bfiman  kindness  had  been  pumped  out  dry,  instearl  oi 
khe  mines. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  151 

Tlie  castle  of  this  ogress  and  child-cjueller  was  in  a 
steep  by-street  at  Brighton ;  where  the  soil  was  more 
than  usually  chalky,  flinty,  and  sterile,  and  the  houses 
were  more  than  usually  brittle  and  thin ;  where  the 
email  front-gardens  had  the  unaccountable  property  of 
producing  nothing  but  marigolds,  whatever  was  sown  in 
them ;  and  where  snails  were  constantly  discovered  hold- 
ing on  to  the  street-doors,  and  other  public  places  they 
were  not  expected  to  ornament,  with  the  tenacily  of 
cupping-glasses.  In  the  winter  time  the  air  couldn't  be 
got  out  of  the  castle,  and  in  the  summer  time  it  couldn't 
be  got  in.  There  was  such  a  continual  reverberation  of 
wind  in  it,  that  it  sounded  like  a  great  shell,  which  the 
inhabitants  were  obliged  to  hold  to  their  ears  night  and 
day,  whether  they  liked  it  or  no.  It  was  not,  naturally, 
a  fresh-smelling  house ;  and  in  the  window  of  the  front- 
psirlor,  which  was  never  opened,  Mrs.  Pipchin  kept  a 
collection  of  plants  in  pots,  which  imparted  an  earthy  fla- 
vor of  their  own  to  the  establishment.  However  choice 
examples  of  their  kind,  too,  these  plants  were  of  a  kind 
peculiarly  adapted  to  the  embowerment  of  Mrs.  Pipchin. 
There  were  half  a  dozen  specimens  of  the  cactus,  writh- 
ing round  bits  of  lath,  like  hairy  serpents  ;  another  speci- 
men shooting  out  broad  claws,  like  a  green  lobster ;  sev- 
eral creeping  vegetables,  possessed  of  sticky  and  adhesive 
leaves  ;  and  one  uncomfortable  flower-pot  hanging  to  the 
ceiling,  which  appeared  to  have  boiled  over,  and  tickling 
people  underneath  with  its  long  green  ends,  remimied 
Ihcm  of  spiders  —  in  which  Mrs.  Pipchin's  dwelling  waj 
uncommonly  prolific,  though  perhaps  it  challenged  com 
oetition  still  more  proudly,  in  the  season,  in  point  of  ear- 
wigs. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  scale  of  charges  being  high,  howevei 


152  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  all  who  could  afford  to  pay,  and  Mrs.  Pipchln  vo.ry 
Beldoia  sweetening. the  equable  acidity  of  her  nature  in 
favor  of  anybody,  she  was  held  to  be  an  old  lady  of  re- 
markable firmness,  who  was  quite  scientific  in  her  know]- 
edge  of  the  childish  character.  On  this  reputation,  and 
on  the  broken  heart  of  Mr.  Pipchin,  she  had  contrived, 
taking  one  year  with  another,  to  eke  out  a  tolerably  suf- 
ficient living  since  her  husband's  demise.  Within  three 
days  after  Mrs.  Chick's  first  allusion  to  her,  this  excel- 
lent old  lady  had  the  satisfaction  of  anticipating  a  hgind- 
some  addition  to  her  current  receipts,  from  the  pocket  of 
Mr.  Dombey ;  and  of  receiving  Florence  and  her  little 
brother  Paul,  as  inmates  of  the  castle. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox,  who  had  brought  them 
down  on  the  previous  night  (which  they  all  passed 
at  an  hotel),  had  just  driven  away  from  the  door,  on 
their  journey  home  again  ;  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  her 
back  to  the  fire,  stood,  reviewing  the  new-comers,  like 
an  old  soldier.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  middle-aged  niece,  her 
good-natured  and  devoteuslave,  but  possessing  a  gaunt 
and  iron-bound  aspect,  and  much  afflicted  with  boils  on 
her  nose,  was  divesting  Master  Bitherstone  of  the  clean 
collar  he  had  worn  on  parade.  Miss  Pankey,  the  only 
other  little  boarder  at  present,  had  that  moment  been 
walked  off  to  the  castle  dungeon  (an  empty  apartment 
at  the  back,  devoted  to  correctional  purposes),  for  having 
bniffed  thrice,  in  the  presence  of  visitors. 

.  "  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  Paul,  "  how  do  you 
think  you  shall  like  me  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  you  at  all,"  replied  Paul 
'  I  want  to  go  away.     This  isn't  my  house." 

"  No.     It's  mine,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

'*Il's  a  very  nasty  one,"  said  Paul.  ; 


DOMBEr  AND  SON.  153 

"  There's  a  worse  place  in  it  than  this,  tliough, '  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  where  we  shut  up  our  bad  boys." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  in  it  ?  "  asked  Paul :  pointing  out 
Master  Bitherstone. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  nodded  assent ;  and  Paul  had  enough  to 
do,  for  the  rest  of  that  day,  in  surveying  Master  Bitlier 
stone  from  head  to  foot,  and  watching  all  the  workinga 
of  his  countenance,  with  the  interest  attaching  to  a  boj 
of  mysterious  and  terrible  experiences. 

At  one  o'clock  there  was  a  dinner,  chiefly  of  the  far 
inaceous  and  vegetable  kind,  when  Miss  Pankey  (a  mild 
little  blue-eyed  morsel  of  a  child,  who  was  shampooed 
every  morning,  and  seemed  in  danger  of  being  rubbed 
away,  altogether)  was  led  in  from  captivity  by  the  ogress 
herself,  and  instructed  that  nobody  who  sniffed  before 
visitors  ever  went  to  Heaven.  When  this  great  truth 
had  been  thoroughly  impressed  upon  her,  she  was  re- 
galed with  rice ;  and  subsequently  repeated  the  form  of 
grace  established  in  the  castle,  in  which  therfe  was  a 
special  clause,  thanking  Mrs.  Pipchin  for  a  good  dinner. 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  niece,  Berinthia,  took  cold  pork.  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  whose  constitution  required  warm  nourishment, 
made  a  special  repast  of  mutton-chops,  which  were 
brought  in  hot  and  hot,  between  two  plates,  and  smelt 
very  nice. 

As  it  rained  after  dinner,  and  they  couldn't  go  out 
walking  on  the  beach,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution 
required  rest  after  chops,  they  went  away  with  Beiry 
(otherwise  Berinthia)  to  the  dungeon ;  an  empty  room 
looking  out  upon  a  chalk  wall  and  a  water-butt,  and 
aade  ghastly  by  a  ragged  fireplace  without  any  stove 
xj  it.  Enlivened  by  company,  however,  this  was  the 
l>est  place  after  all ;  for  Bei ry  plajed  with  them  there» 


1 54  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  seemed  to  enjoy  a  game  at  romps  as  much  as  they 
did  ;  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  knocking  angrily  at  the  wall, 
like  the  Cock-lane  ghost  revived,  they  left  off,  and  Berry 
told   them  stories  in  a  whisper  until  twilight. 

Fi>r  tea  there  was  plenty  of  milk  and  water,  and  bread 
and  butter,  with  a  little  black  teapot  for  Mrs.  Pipchin 
and  Berry,  and  buttered  toast  unlimited  for  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, which  was  brought  in,  hot  and  hot,  like  the  chops. 
Though  Mrs.  Pipchin  got  very  greasy,  outside,  over  this 
dish,  it  didn't  seem  to  lubricate  her,  internally,  at  all ; 
for  she  was  as  fierce  as  ever,  and  the  hard  gray  eye 
knew  no  softening. 

After  tea,  Berry  brought  out  a  little  work-box,  with 
the  Royal  Pavilion  on  the  lid,  and  fell  to  working  bus- 
ily ;  while  Mrs.  Pipchin,  having  put  on  her  spectacled 
and  opened  a  great  volume  bound  in  green  baize,  began 
to  nod.  And  whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  caught  herself 
falling  forward  into  the  fire,  and  woke  up,  she  filliped 
Master  Bitherstone  on  the  oose  for  nodding  too. 

At  last  it  was  the  children's  bedtime,  and  after  prayers 
they  went  to  bed.  As  little  Miss  Pankey  was  afraid  of 
sleeping  alone  in  the  dark,  Mrs.  Pipchin  always  made  a 
point  of  driving  her  up-stairs  herself,  like  a  sheep ;  and 
it  was  cheerful  to  hear  Miss  Pankey  moaning  long  after- 
wards, in  the  least  eligible  chamber,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin 
now  and  then  going  in  to  shake  her.  At  about  half-past 
nine  o'clock  the  odor  of  a  warm  sweet-bread  (Mrs.  Pip- 
chin's  constitution  wouldn't  go  to  sleep  without  sweet- 
bread) diversified  the  prevailing  fragrance  of  the  house, 
which  Mrs.  Wickam  said  was  *'  a  smell  of  building ; " 
and  slumber  fell  upon  the  castle  shortly  after. 

The  breakfast  next  morning  was  like  the  tea  over- 
nght,  except  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  her  roll  instead  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  155 

toast,  and  seemed  a  little  more  irate  when  it  was  over 
Master  Bitherstone  read  aloud  to  the  rest  a  pedigree 
from  Genesis  (judiciously  selected  by  Mrs.  Pipchin), 
getting  over  the  names  with  the  ease  and  clearness  of 
a  person  tumbling  up  the  treadmill.  That  done,  Misi 
Pankey  was  borne  away  to  be  shampooed  ;  and  Mastei 
Bitherstone  to  have  something  else  done  to  him  with 
salt  water,  from  which  he  always  returned  very  blue  and 
dejected.  Paul  and  Florence  went  out  in  the  mean  time 
on  the  beach  with  "Wickam  —  who  was  constantly  in 
tears  —  and  at  about  noon  Mrs.  Pipchin  presided  over 
some  Early  Readings.  It  being  a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin'8 
system  not  to  encourage  a  child's  mind  to  develop  and 
expand  itself  like  a  young  flower,  but  to  open  it  by  force 
like  an  03'ster,  the  moral  of  these  lessons  was  usually  of 
a  violent  and  stunning  character:  the  hero  —  a  naughty 
boy  —  seldom,  in  the  mildest  catastrophe,  being  finished 
off  by  anything  less  than  a  lion,  or  a  bear. 

Such  was  life  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's.  On  Saturday  Mr. 
Dombey  came  down;  and  Florence  and  Paul  would  gc 
to  his  hotel,  and  have  tea.  They  passed  the  whole  of 
Sunday  with  him,  and  generally  rode  out  before  dinner ; 
and  on  these  occasions  Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  grow, 
like  Falstaff's  assailants,  and  instead  of  being  one  man 
in  buckram,  to  become  a  dozen.  Sunday  evening  was 
the  most  melancholy  evening  in  the  week ;  for  Mrs. 
Pipchin  always  made  a  point  of  being  particularly  cross 
on  Sunday  nights.  Miss  Pankey  was  generally  brought 
back  from  an  aunt's  at  Rottingdean,  in  deep  distress; 
and  INIaster  Bitherstone,  whose  relatives  were  all  in 
India,  and  who  was  required  to  sit,  between  the  services, 
in  an  erect  position  with  his  head  against  the  parlor  wall 
ueither  moving  liand  nor  foot,  suffered  so  acutely  in  his 


i56  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

young  spints  that  he  once  asked  Florence,  on  a  Sun- 
day night,  if  she  could  give  him  any  idea  of  the  way 
back  to  Bengal. 

But  it  was  generally  said  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a 
woman  of  system  with  children  ;  and  no  doubt  she  was. 
Certainly  the  wild  ones  went  home  tame  enough,  aftei 
sojourning  for  a  few  months  beneath  her  hospitable  roof. 
It  was  generally  said,  too,  that  it  was  highly  creditable 
of  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  have  devoted  herself  to  this  way  of 
life,  and  to  have  made  such  a  sacrifice  of  lier  feelings, 
and  such  a  resolute  stand  against  her  troubles,  when 
Mr.  Pipchin  broke  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 

At  this  exemplary  old  lady,  Paul  would  sit  staring 
in  his  little  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  for  any  length  of 
time.  He  never  seemed  to  know  what  weariness  was, 
when  he  was  looking  fixedly  at  Mrs.  Pipchin.  He  was 
not  fond  of  her ;  he  was  not  afraid  of  her ;  but  in  those 
old  old  moods  of  his,  she  seemed  to  have  a  grotesque 
atti-action  for  him.  There  he  would  sit,  looking  at  her, 
and  warming  his  hands,  and  looking  at  her,  until  he 
sometimes  quite  confounded  Mrs.  Pipchin,  ogress  as  she 
was.  Once  she  asked  him,  when  they  were  alone,  what 
he  was  thinking  about. 

"  You,"  said  Paul,  without  the  least  reserve. 

"  And  what  are  you  thinking  about  me  'i  "  asked  Mrsk 
Pipchin. 

•'  I'm  thinking  how  old  you  must  be,"  said  Paul. 

*'  You  mustn't  say  such  things  as  that,  young  gentlo- 
flaan,"  returned  the  dame.     "  That'll  never  do." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Paul. 

"  Because  it's  not  polite,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  snappishly 

"Not  polite?"  said  Paul. 

«No-" 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  IW 

"It's  not  folite,"  said  Paul,  innocently,  '^  to  eat  all 
the  mutton-chops  and  toast,  Wickarn  says." 

"Wickam,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  coloring,  "ia  a 
wricked,  impudent,  bold-faced  hussy." 

"What's  that?"  inquired  Paul. 

"  Never  you  mind,  sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  R^ 
member  the  story  of  the  little  boy  that  was  gored  to 
death  by  a  mad  bull  for  asking  questions." 

"  If  the  bull  was  mad,"  said  Paul,  "  how  did  he  know 
that  the  boy  had  asked  questions  ?  Nobody  can  go  and 
whisper  secrets  to  a  mad  bull.  I  don't  believe  that 
Btory." 

"  You  don't  believe  it,  sir  ?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
amazed. 

"No,"  said  Paul. 

"  Not  if  it  should  happen  to  have  been  a  tame  bull, 
you  little  infidel  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

As  Paul  had  not  considered  the  subject  in  that  light, 
and  had  founded  his  conclusions  on  the  alleged  lunacy 
of  the  bull,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  put  down  for  the 
present.  But  he  sat  turning  it  over  in  his  mind,  with 
such  an  obvious  intention  of  fixing  Mrs.  Pipchin  pres- 
ently, that  even  that  hardy  old  lady  deemed  it  prudent 
to  retreat  until  he  should  have  foi'gotten  the  subject. 

From  that  time,  Mrs.  Pipchin  appeared  to  have  some- 
thing of  the  same  odd  kind  of  attraction  towards  Paul, 
as  Paul  had  towards  her.  She  would  make  him  move 
his  chair  to  her  side  of  the  fire,  instead  of  sitting  op- 
posite ;  and  there  he  would  remain  in  a  nook  between 
Mrs.  Pipchin  and  the  fender,  with  all  the  light  of  his 
little  face  absorbed  into  the  black  bombazine  drapery, 
studying  every  line  and  wrinkle  of  her  countenance,  and 
Beering  at  the    hard  gray  eye  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  wj;8 


158  DOMBEY  AND   SOJS. 

sometimes  fain  to  shut  it,  on  pretence  of  dozing.  Mix 
Pipchin  had  an  old  black  cat,  who  generally  lay  coiled 
upon  the  centre  foot  of  the  fender,  purring  egotistically 
and  winking  at  the  lire  until  the  contracted  pupils  of 
his  eyes  were  like  two  notes  of  admiration.  The  good 
old  lady  might  have  been  —  not  to  record  it  disrespect- 
fully —  a  witch,  and  Paul  and  the  cat  her  two  familiars, 
as  they  all  sat  by  the  fire  together.  It  would  have  been 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  appearance  of  the  party  if 
they  had  all  sprung  up  the  chimney  in  a  high  wind  cza 
night,  and  never  been  heard  of  any  more. 

This,  however,  never  came  to  pass.  Ibe  cat,  and 
Paul,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  were  constantly  to  be  found  in 
their  usual  places  after  dark ;  and  Paul,  eschewing  the 
companionship  of  Master  Bitherstone,  went  on  studying 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  the  cat,  and  the  fire,  night  after 
night,  as  if  they  were  a  book  of  necromancy,  in  three 
volumes. 

Mrs.  Wickam  put  her  own  construction  on  Paul's  ec- 
centricities ;  and  being  confirmed  in  her  low  spirits  by  a 
perplexed  view  of  chimneys  from  the  room  where  she 
was  accustomed  to  sit,  and  by  the  noise  of  the  wind,  and 
by  the  general  dulness  (gashliness  was  Mrs.  Wickam's 
strong  expression)  of  her  present  life,  deduced  the  most 
dismal  reflections  fi-oni  the  foregoing  premises.  It  was 
a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipehin's  policy  to  prevent  her  own 
"young  hussy"  —  that  was  Mrs.  Pipehin's  generic  nam© 
for  female  servant  —  from  communicating  with  Mrs. 
Wickam :  to  which  end  she  devoted  mucii  of  her  time  to 
concealing  herself  behind  doors,  and  springing  out  on  that 
devoted  maiden,  whenever  she  made  an  approach  tow- 
ards Mrs.  Wickam's  apartment.  But  Berry  was  free 
to  hold  what  converse  she  could   in   that  quarter  con- 


DOMBEr  AND  SON  159 

Bistently  with  tlie  discharge  of  the  muhitanous  duties  al 
which  she  toiled  inces-antly  from  morning  to  night;  and 
h)  Berry  Mr.-;.  Wickain  unburdened  her  mind. 

"  What  a  pretty  fellow  nc  is  when  he's  asleep  ! "  said 
Herry,  stopping  to  look  at  Paul  in  bed,  one  night  when 
ifce  took  up  Mrs.  Wickam's  supper. 

«  Ah !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Wickam.     "  He  need  be." 

"Why,  he's  not  ugly  when  he's  awake,"  obsencd 
Uerry. 

"  No,  jini'am.  Oh.  no.  No  more  was  my  unclt's 
Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam. 

Berry  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  trace  the  connec- 
tion of  ideas  between  Paul  Dombey  and  Mrs.  Wickani's 
uncle's  Betsey  Jane. 

"  Jly  uncle's  wife,"  Mrs.  Wickam  went  on  to  say, 
"died  just  like  his  mama.  My  uncle's  child  took  on  jus' 
H:<  Master  Paul  do.  My  uncle's  child  made  people's 
blootl  run  cold,  sometimes,  she  did ! " 

"How?"  asked  Berry. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  sat  up  all  night  alone  with  Betsey 
Jane  ! "  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  not  if  you'd  have  put 
Wiikam  into  business  next  morning  for  himself.  J 
couldn't  have  done  it  Miss  Berry." 

Miss  Berry  naturally  asked,  why  not?  But  Mrs. 
Wickam,  agreeably  to  the  usage  of  some  ladies  in  her 
»j!Ondition,  pursued  her  own  branch  of  the  subject  without 
any  compunction. 

"  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  was  as  sweet  a 
child  as  1  could  wish  to  see.  I  couldn't  wish  to  see  a 
sweeter.  Everything  that  a  child  could  have  in  the  way 
»f  illnesses,  Betsey  Jane  had  come  through.  The  cramps 
jvos  as  common  to  Her,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  as  biles  is 
to  j-ourseU;  Miss  Berry."  Miss  Berry  involuntaiilv 
imnkled  her  nose. 


160  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  But  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  lowering  hei 
voice,  and  looking  round  the  room,  and  towards  Paul  ia 
bed,  "  had  been  minded,  in  her  cradle,  by  lier  departed 
mother.  I  couldn't  say  how,  nor  I  couldn't  say  wtien, 
nor  I  couldn't  say  whether  the  dear  child  knew  it  or  not, 
but  Betsey  Jane  had  been  watched  by  her  mother,  Miss 
Berry  !  You  may  say  nonsense !  I  a'n't  offended,  rai&s. 
I  hope  you  may  be  able  to  think  in  your  own  conscience 
that  it  is  nonsense  ;  you'll  find  your  spirits  all  the  better 
for  it  in  this  —  you'll  excuse  my  being  so  free  —  in  this 
burying-ground  of  a  place  ;  which  is  wearing  of  me 
down.  Master  Paul's  a  little  restless  in  hia  sleep.  Pat 
his  back,  if  you  please." 

"  Of  course  you  think,"  said  Berry,  gently  doing  what 
she  was  asked,  "  that  he  has  been  nursed  by  his  mother, 
too  ?  " 

"Betsey  Jane,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam,  in  her  most 
solemn  tones,  "  was  put  uj^on  as  that  child  has  been  pu« 
upon,  and  changed  as  that  child  has  changed.  I  have 
seen  her  sit,  often  and  often,  think,  think,  thinking,  like 
him.  I  have  seen  her  look,  often  and  often,  old,  old,  old, 
like  him.  I  have  heard  her,  many  a  time,  talk  just  like 
him.  I  consider  that  child  and  Betsey  Jane  on  the  same 
footing  entirely.  Miss  Berry." 

"  Is  your  uncle's  child  alive  ?  "  asked  Berry. 

**  Yes,  miss,  she  is  alive,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam  with 
An  air  of  triumph,  for  it  was  evident  IMiss  Berry  ex 
pected  the  reverse ;  "  and  is  married  to  a  silver-cbsser 
Oh  yes,  miss,  Shk  is  alive,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  laying 
Strong  stress  on  her  nominative  case. 

It  being  clear  that  somebody  was  dead,  Mrs.  Pipchin'a 
oiece  inquired  who  it  was. 

"  I  wouldn't  wish  to  make  you  uneasy,"  returned  M» 
Wickam,  pursuing  her  supper.     "  Don't  ask  me." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  161 

This  was  ilie  surest  way  of  beinjj  a<ked  again.  Misg 
Berry  repeated  her  question,  therefore ;  and  after  some 
resistance,  and  rehiclance,  Mrs.  Wickaiu  laid  down  her 
knife,  and  again  glancing  round  the  room  and  at  Paul, 
ii  bed,  replied  :  — 

*'  She  took  fancies  to  people  ;  whimsical  fancies,  scrao 
ol  them  ;  others,  affections  that  one  might  expect  to  see 
—  only  stronger  than  common.     They  all  died." 

This  was  so  very  unexpected  and  awful  to  Mrs.  Pii>- 
chin's  niece,  that  she  sat  upright  on  the  hard  edge  of  the 
bedstead,  breathing  short,  and  surveying  her  informant 
with  looks  of  undisguised  alarm. 

Mrs.  Wickam  shook  her  left  forefinger  stealthily  tow- 
ards the  bed  where  Florence  lay ;  then  turned  it  upside 
down,  and  made  several  emphatic  points  at  the  floor; 
immediately  below  which  was  tlie  parlor  in  which  Mrs. 
Pipchin  habitually  consumed  the  toast. 

"  Remember  my  words,  Miss  Berry,"  said  Mrs. 
Wickam,  "  and  be  thankful  that  Master  Paul  is  not  too 
fond  of  you.  I  am,  that  he's  not  too  fond  of  me,  I  as- 
sure you;  though  there  isn't  much  to  live  for  —  you'll 
excuse  my  being  so  free  —  in  this  jail  of  a  house  !  " 

Miss  Berry's  emotion  might  have  led  to  her  patting 
Paul  too  hard  on  the  back,  or  might  have  produced  a 
cessation  of  that  soothing  monotony,  but  he  turned  iu 
Lis  bed  just  now,  and,  presently  awaking,  sat  up  ir  it 
with  his  hair  hot  and  wet  from  the  effects  of  some  cLild- 
i  li  dream,  and  asked  for  Florence. 

She  was  out  of  her  own  bed  at  the  first  sound  of  his 
foice  ;  and  bending  over  his  pillow  immediately,  sung 
him  to  sleep  again.  Mrs.  Wickam  shaking  her  head, 
4nd  letting  fall  several  tears,  pointed  out  the  liltle  group 
X)  Berry,  and  turned  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling. 

Vwl,.    I.  11 


162  DOMBEr   AND  SON. 

"Good-night,  miss!"  said  Wickam,  softly.  "Good- 
night !  Your  aunt  is  an  old  lady,  Miss  Berry,  and  it's 
what  you  must  have  looked  for,  often." 

This  consolatory  farewell,  Mrs.  Wickam  accompanied 
*rith  a  look  of  heartfelt  anguish  ;  and  being  left  alone 
with  tl  e  two  children  again,  and  becoming  conscious  that 
the  wind  was  blowing  mournfully,  she  indulged  in  mel- 
ancholy —  that  cheapest  and  most  accessible  of  luxuries 
—  until  she  was  overpowered  by  slumber. 

Although  the  niece  (jf  Mrs.  Pipchin  did  not  expect  to 
Qnd  t'^at  exemplary  dragon  prostrate  on  the  hearth-rug 
when  she  went  down-stairs,  she  was  relieved  to  find  her 
unusually  fractious  and  severe,  and  with  every  present 
appearance  of  intending  to  live  a  long  time  to  be  a  com- 
fort to  all  who  knew  her.  Nor  had  she  any  symptoms 
of  declining,  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  week,  when  the 
constitutional  viands  still  continued  to  disappear  in  reg- 
ular succession,  notwithstanding  that  Paul  studied  her  as 
attentively  as  ever,  and  occupied  his  usual  seat  between 
the  black  skirts  and  the  fender,  with  unwavering  con- 
stancy. 

But  as  Paul  himself  was  no  stronger  at  the  expiration 
of  that  time  than  he  had  been  on  his  tirst  arrival,  though 
De  looked  much  healthier  in  the  face,  a  little  carriage 
was  got  for  him,  in  which  he  could  lie  at  his  ease,  with 
va  alphabet  and  other  elementary  works  of  reference, 
i.nd  be  wheeled  down  to  the  sea-side.  Consistent  in  his 
odd  tastes,  the  child  set  aside  a  ruddy-faced  lad  who  was 
proposed  as  the  drawer  of  this  carriage,  and  selected, 
instciad,  his  grandfather  —  a  weazen,  old,  crab-faced 
Mian,  in  a  suit  of  battered  oilskin,  who  had  got  tough  and 
stringy  from  long  pickling  in  salt  wafer,  and  who  emel( 
like  a  weedy  sea-beach  when  the  tide  is  out 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  163 

With  this  notable  attendant  to  pull  him  along,  and 
Florence  always  walking  by  his  side,  and  the  despondent 
Wickam  bringing  up  the  rear,  he  went  down  to  the 
margin  of  the  ocean  every  day ;  and  there  he  would  sit 
or  lie  in  his  carriage  for  hours  together:  never  so  dis- 
tressed as  by  the  company  of  children  —  Florence  alone 
excepted,  always. 

"  Go  away,  if  you  please,"  he  would  say  to  any  child 
who  came  to  bear  him  company.  "  Thank  you,  but  I 
don't  want  you." 

Some  small  voice,  near  his  ear,  would  ask  him  how  he 
was,  perhaps. 

"  1  am  very  well,  I  thank  you,"  he  would  answer. 
'*  But  you  had  better  go  and  play,  if  you  please." 

Then  he  would  turn  his  head,  and  watch  the  child 
away,  and  say  to  Florence,  "  We  don't  want  any  others, 
do  we  ?     Kiss  me,  Floy." 

He  had  even  a  dislike,  at  such  times,  to  the  company 
of  Wickam,  and  was  well  pleased  when  she  strolled 
away,  as  she  generally  did,  to  pick  up  shells  and  ac- 
quaintances. His  favorite  spot  was  quite  a  lonely  one, 
far  away  from  most  loungers  ;  and  with  Florence  sitting 
by  his  side  at  work,  or  reading  to  him,  or  talking  to  him, 
and  the  wind  blowing  on  his  face,  and  the  water  coming 
lip  among  the  wheels  of  his  bed,  he  wanted  nothing 
wore. 

"■  Floy,"  he  said  one  day,  "  where's  India,  where  that 
boy's  friends  live  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  a  long,  long  distance  off,"  said  Flcrence,  rais- 
ing her  ey.Bs  from  her  work. 

"  Weeks  off  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Yes,  dear.     Many  weeks'  journey,  night  and  day." 

"  If  you  were  in  India,  Floy,"  said  Paul,  after  being. 


164  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

silent  for  a  minute,  "  I  should  —  what  is  that  mama  did  ? 
I  forget." 

"  Loved  me  !  "  answered  Florence. 

"  No,  no.     Don't  I  love  you  now,  Floy  ?     What  is  il  ?  ^ 
'  —  Died.     If  you  were  in  India,  I  should  die,  Floy." 

She  hurriedly  put  her  work  aside,  and  laid  her  bead 
down  on  his  pillow,  caressing  him.  And  so  would  she, 
she  said,  if  he  were  there.     He  would  be  better  soon. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  a  great  deal  better  now ! "  he  answered. 
"  I  don't  mean  that.  ^  I  mean  that  I  should  die  of  being 
BO  sorry  and  so  lonely,  Floy  !  " 

Another  time,  in  the  same  place,  he  fell  asleep,  and 
slept  quietly  for  a  long  time.  Awaking  suddenly,  he 
listened,  started  np  and  sat  listening. 

Florence  asked  him  what  he  thought  he  heard. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  it  says,"  he  answered,  looking 
steadily  in  her  face.  "  The  sea,  Floy,  what  is  it  that  it 
keeps  on  saying  ?  " 

She  told  him  that  it  was  only  the  noise  of  the  rolling 
waves. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "  But  I  know  that  they  are  al- 
ways saying  something.  Always  the  same  thing.  What 
place  is  over  there  ? "  He  rose  np,  looking  eagerly  at 
the  horizon. 

She  told  him  that  there  was  another  country  opposite, 
but  he  said  he  didn't  mean  that ;  he  meant  farther  awaj 
—  farther  away  ! 

Very  often  afterwards,  in  the  midst  of  their  talk,  he 
would  break  off,  to  try  to  understand  what  it  was  that 
the  waves  were  always  saying ;  and  would  rise  up  in  liis 
much  to  look  towards  that  invisible  region  far  away. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON  166 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I^  WaiCH  THE  WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN  GETS  INTO  TltOQBLS 

That  spice  of  romance  and  love  of  the  marvelloua, 
of  which  there  was  a  pretty  strong  infusion  in  the  naturfi 
of  young  Walter  Gay,  and  whiclj  the  guardianship  of 
his  uncle,  old  Solomon  Gills,  had  not  very  much  weak- 
ened by  the  waters  of  stern  practical  experience,  was  the 
occasion  of  his  attaching  an  uncommon  and  delightful 
interest  to  the  adventure  of  Florence  with  Good  Mrs. 
Brown.  lie  pampered  and  cherished  it  in  his  memory, 
especially  that  part  of  it  with  which  he  had  been  associ- 
ated :  until  it  became  the  spoiled  child  of  his  fancy,  and 
took  its  own  way,  and  did  what  it  liked  with  it. 

The  recollection  of  those  incidents,  and  his  own  share 
in  them,  may  have  been  made  the  more  captivating,  per- 
ha])s,  by  the  weekly  dreamings  of  old  Sol  and  Captain 
Cuttle  on  Sundays.  Hardly  a  Sunday  passed,  withouf 
mysterious  references  being  made  by  one  or  other  of 
these  worthy  chums  to  Richard  Whittington  ;  and  the 
latter  gentleman  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  purchase  a 
ballad  of  considerable  antiquity,  that  had  long  guttered 
among  many  others,  chiefly  expressive  of  maritime  sen- 
SiTients,  on  a  dead  wall  in  the  Commercial-road  :  which 
[)oetical  performance  set  forth  the  courtship  and  nuptiala 
i)f  a  promising  yoimg  coal-whipper  with  a  certain  "  love- 
y  Peg,"  the  accomplished  daughter  of  the  master  and 


1G6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

part-owner  of  a  Newcastle  collier.  In  this  stirring  lo 
gend,  Captain  Cuttle  desciied  a  profound  metaphysical 
bearing  on  the  case  of  Walter  and  Florence  ;  and  it 
excited  him  so  much,  that  on  very  festive  occasions,  aa 
birthdays  and  a  few  other  non-Dominical  holidays,  he 
would  roar  through  the  whole  song  in  the  little  back-par- 
lor ;  making  an  amazing  shake  on  the  word  Pe  — e — eg_ 
with  which  every  verse  concluded,  in  compliment  to  the 
heroine  of  the  piece. 

But  a  frank,  free-spirited,  open-hearted  boy,  is  not 
much  given  to  analyzing  the  nature  of  his  own  feel- 
ings, however  strong  their  hold  upon  him :  and  Walter 
would  have  found  it  difficult  to  decide  this  point.  He 
had  a  great  affection  for  the  wharf  where  he  had  en- 
countered Florence,  and  for  the  streets  (albeit  not  en- 
chanting in  themselves)  Uy  which  they  had  come  home. 
The  shoes  that  had  so  often  tumbled  off  by  the  way,  he 
preserved  in  his  own  room ;  and,  sitting  in  the  little  back- 
parlor  of  an  evening,  he  had  drawn  a  whole  gallery  of 
fancy  portraits  of  Good  IMrs.  Brown.  It  may  be  that 
he  became  a  little  smarter  in  his  dress,  after  that  memo- 
rable occasion ;  and  he  certainly  liked  in  his  leisure  time 
to  walk  towards  that  quarter  of  the  town  where  Mr. 
Dombey's  house  was  situated,  on  the  vague  chance  of 
passing  little  Florence  in  the  street.  But  the  sentiment 
of  all  this  was  as  boyish  and  innocent  as  could  be. 
Florence  was  very  pretty,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  admire  a 
pretty  face.  Florence  was  defenceless  and  weak,  and  it 
was  a  proud  thought  that  he  had  been  able  to  render 
her  any  protection  and  assistance.  Florence  was  the 
most  grateful  little  creature  in  the  world,  and  it  was  de- 
lightful to  see  her  bright  gratitude  beaming  in  her  face. 
Florence  was  neglected  and  coldly  looked  upon,  and  bia 


DOMBEY  AND  SOX.  167 

Drpiibt  was  full  of  youthful  interest  for  the  slightud  child 
ill  her- dull,  stately  home. 

Thus  it  eame  about  tliat,  perhaps  some  half  a  dozen 
times  in  the  course  of  the  year,  Walter  pulled  off  his  bat 
to  F'lorence  in  the  street,  and  Florence  would  ptop  to 
shake  lland^5.  Mrs.  Wickam  (who  with  a  characteristic 
cltcralion  of  his  name  invariably  spoke  of  him  as 
"  Young  Graves ")  was  so  well  used  to  this,  knowing 
the  story  of  their  acquaintance,  that  she  took  no  heed  of 
it  at  all.  Miss  Nipper,  on  the  other  hand,  rather  looked 
out  for  these  occasions  :  her  sensitive  young  heart  being 
secretly  propitiated  by  Walter's  good  looks,  and  inclining 
to  the  belief  that  its  sentiments  were  responded  to. 

In  this  way,  Walter,  so  far  from  forgetting  or  losing 
sight  of  his  acquaintance  with  Florence,  only  remem- 
bered it  better  and  better.  As  to  its  adventurous  begin- 
ning, and  all  those  little  circumstances  which  gave  it  a 
distinctive  character  and  relish,  he  took  them  into  ac- 
count, more  as  a  pleasant  story  very  agreeable  to  his  im- 
agination, and  not  to  be  dismissed  from  it,  than  as  a  part 
of  any  matter  of  fact  with  which  he  was  concerned. 
They  set  off  Florence  very  much,  to  his  fancy ;  but 
not  himself.  Sometimes,  he  thought  (and  then  he  walked 
very  fast)  what  a  grand  thing  it  would  have  been  for 
him  to  have  been  going  to  sea  on  the  day  after  that  first 
meeting,  and  to  have  gone,  and  to  have  done  wondera 
\here,  and  to  have  stopped  away  a  long  time,  and  to  have 
tome  back  an  admiral  of  all  the  colors  of  the  dolphin,  or 
at  least  a  post-captain  with  epaulettes  of  insupportable 
brightness,  and  have  married  Florence  (then  a  beautiful 
voung  woman)  in  spite  of  Mr.  Dombey's  teeth,  cravat, 
and  watch-cliain,  and  borne  her  away  to  the  blue  shorea 
of  somewhere  or  other,  triumphantly.     But  these  flight* 


168  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

of  fancy  seldom  burnished  the  brass  plate  of  Domboj 
and  Son's  offices  into  a  tablet  of  golden  hope,  or  shed  a 
brilliant  lustre  on  their  dirty  skylights ;  and  when  the 
captain  and  Uncle  Sol  talked  about  Richard  Whittington 
and  masters'  daughters,  Walter  felt  that  he  understood 
his  time  position  at  Dombey  and  Son's,  much  better  than 
they  did. 

So  it  was  that  he  went  on  doing  what  he  had  to  do 
from  day  to  day,  in  a  cheerful,  pains-taking,  merry 
spirit;  and  saw  through  the  sanguine  complexion  of 
Uncle  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle;  and  yet  entertained  a 
thousand  indistinct  and  visionary  fancies  of  his  own,  to 
which  theirs  were  work-a-day  probabilities.  Such  was 
his  condition  at  the  Pipchin  period,  when  he  looked  a 
little  older  than  of  yore,  but  not  much ;  and  was  the 
same  light-footed,  light-hearted,  light-headed  lad,  as  when 
he  charged  into  the  parlor  at  the  head  of  Uncle  Sol  and 
the  imaginary  boarders,  and  lighted  him  to  bring  up  the 
"Madeira. 

"Uncle  Sol,"  said  Walter,  "I  don't  thmk  you're 
well.  You  haven't  eaten  any  breakfast.  I  shall  bring 
a  doctor  to  you,  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

*'  He  can't  give  me  what  I  want,  my  boy,"  said  Uncle 
Sol.  "  At  least  he  is  in  good  practice  if  he  can  —  and 
\hen  he  wouldn't." 

"  What  is  it,  uncle  ?     Customers  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  returned  Solomon,  with  a  sigh.  "  Customers 
would  do." 

"  Confound  it,  uncle ! "  said  Walter,  putting  down  his 
breakfast-cup  with  a  clatter,  and  striking  his  hand  on  the 
table :  "  when  I  see  the  people  going  up  and  down  the 
street  in  shoals  all  day,  and  passing  and  repassing  the 
shop  every  minute  by  scores,  I  feel  half  tempted  to  rush 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  169 

Dut,  collar  somebody,  bring  him  in,  and  make  him  buy 
fifty  pounds'  worth  of  instruments  for  ready  money. 
What  are  you  looking  in  at  the  door  for  ? "  —  con- 
tinued Walter,  apostrophizing  an  old  gentleman  with  a 
powdered  head  (inaudibly  to  him  of  course),  who  was 
staring  at  a  ship's  telescope  with  all  his  might  and 
main  "  That's  no  use.  I  could  do  that.  Come  I'l 
and  buy  it !  " 

The  old  gentleman,  however,  having  satiated  his  curi* 
osity,  walked  calmly  away. 

"  There  he  goes  ! "  said  Walter.  "  That's  the  way 
with  'era  all.  But  uncle  —  I  say.  Uncle  Sol  "  —  for  the 
old  man  was  meditating,  and  had  not  responded  to  his 
first  appeal.  "  Don't  be  cast  down.  Don't  be  out  of 
spirits,  uncle.  When  orders  do  come,  they'll  come  in 
such  H  crowd,  you  won't  be  able  to  execute  *em." 

"  I  shall  be  past  executing  'em,  whenever  they  come, 
my  boy,"  returned  Solomon  Gills.  "  They'll  never 
:;ome  to  this  shop  again,  till  I  am  out  of  it." 

"I  say,  uncle!  You  mustn't  really,  you  know!" 
urged  Walter.     "  Don't  I  " 

Old  Sol  endeavored  to  assume  a  cheery  look,  and 
smiled  across  the  little  table  at  him  as  pleasantly  as  he 
could. 

"  There's  nothing  more  than  usual  the  matter ;  is 
there,  uncle  ?  "  said  Walter,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the 
wca-tray,  and  bending  over,  to  speak  the  more  confiden- 
tially and  kindly.  "  Be  open  with  me,  uncle,  if  there  is, 
and  tell  me  all  about  it " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  returned  Old  Sol.     "  More  than  usual 
No,  no.     What  should  there  be  the  matter  more  than 
jsual ?  " 

Walter  answered  with  an  incredulous  shake  of  hi* 


170  noMBEY  AND  SON. 

head.  "  That's  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  eaid,  "  and 
you  ask  me  !  I'll  tell  you  what,  uncle,  when  I  see  you 
like  this,  I  am  quite  sorry  that  I  live  with  you." 

OKI  Sol  opened  his  eyes  involuntarily. 

"  Yes.  Tliough  nobody  ever  was  happier  than  I  em 
and  always  have  been  with  you,  I  am  quite  sorry  hat  I 
live  with  you,  when  I  see  you  with  anything  on  yonr 
miud." 

"  I  am  a  little  dull  at  such  times,  I  know,"  observed 
Solomon,  meekly  rubbing  his  hands. 

"  What  I  mean.  Uncle  Sol,"  pursued  Walter,  bending 
ever  a  little  more  to  pat  him  on  the  shoulder,  "  is,  that 
then  I  feel  you  ought  to  have,  sitting  here  and  pouring 
out  the  tea,  instead  of  me,  a  nice  little  dumpling  of  a 
wife,  you  know  —  a  comfortable,  capital,  cosey  old  lady, 
who  was  just  a  match  for  you,  and  knew  how  to  manage 
you,  and  keep  you  in  good  heart.  Here  am  I,  as  loving 
a  nephew  as  ever  was  (I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be  !)  but  I 
am  only  a  nephew,  and  I  can't  be  such  a  companion  to 
you  when  you're  low  and  out  of  sorts  as  she  would  have 
made  herself,  years  ago,  though  I'm  sure  I'd  give  any 
money  if  I  could  clieer  you  up.  And  so  I  say,  when  I 
see  you  with  anything  on  your  mind,  that  I  feel  quite 
Borry-  yoa  haven't  got  somebody  better  about  you  than  a 
blundering  young  rough-and-tough  boy  like  me,  who  has 
got  the  will  to  console  you,  uncle,  but  hasn't  got  the  way 
—  hasn't  got  the  way,"  repeated  Walter,  reaching  ovei 
farther  yet,  to  shake  his  uncle  by  the  hafld. 

"  Wally,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  "  if  the  cosey 
little  old  lady  had  taken  her  place  in  this  parlor  five- 
and-forty  years  ago,  I  never  could  have  been  fonder  of 
her  than  I  am  of  you." 

"  /  know  that.  Uncle  Sol,"  returned  Walter.     "  Lord 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  171 

bless  you,  I  know  that.  But  you  wouldn't  have  had  the 
whole  weight  of  any  uncomfortable  secrets  if  she  had 
been  with  you,  because  she  would  have  known  how  to 
relieve  you  of  'em,  and  I  don't." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  do,"  returned  the  instrument-maker. 

"Well  then,  what's  the*  matter,  Uncle  Sol?"  said 
Walter,  coaxingly.     "Come!     Wliat's  the  matter?" 

Solomon  Gills  persisted  that  there  was  nothing  tho 
matter  ;  and  maintained  it  so  resolutely,  that  his  nephew 
had  no  resource  but  to  make  a  very  indifferent  imitation 
of  believing  him.  < 

"  All  I  can  say  is,  Uncle  Sol,  that  if  there  is  "  — 

"  But  there  isn't,"  said  Solomon. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Walter.  "  Then  I've  no  more  to 
say  ;  and  that's  lucky,  for  my  time's  up  for  going  to  busi- 
ness. I  shall  look  in  by  and  by  when  I'm  out,  to  see 
how  you  get  on,  uncle.  And  mind,  uncle !  I'll  never 
believe  you  again,  and  never  tell  you  anything  more 
about  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior,  if  I  find  out  that  you  have 
been  deceiving  me  !  " 

Solomon  Gills  laughingly  defied  him  to  find  out  any^ 
thing  of  the  kind ;  and  Walter,  revolving  in  his  thoughts 
all  sorts  of  impracticable  ways  of  making  fortunes  and 
placing  the  wooden  midshipman  in  a  position  of  inde- 
pendence, betook  himself  to  the  offices  of  Dombey  and 
Son  with  a  lieavier  countenance  than  he  usually  carried 
there. 

There  lived  in  those  days,  round  the  corner  —  in 
Bishopsgate-street  Without — one  Brogley,  sworn  broker 
and  appraiser,  who  kept  a  shop  where  every  descriptiol 
of  second-hand  furniture  was  exhibited  in  the  most  un- 
oomfortable  aspect,  and  under  circumstances  a,nd  in  com- 
binations  the   most  completely  foreign    to   its   purpose. 


172  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Dozens  of  chairs  hooked  on  to  washing-stands,  which 
with  difficulty  poised  themselves  on  the  shoulders  of 
Bideboards,  which  in  their  turn  stood  upon  the  wrong 
side  of  dining-tables,  gymnastic  with  their  legs  upward 
on  the  tops  of  other  dining-tables,  were  among  its  most 
reasonable  arrangements.  A  banquet  array  of  dish- 
covers,  wine-glasses,  and  decanters,  was  generally  to  be 
seen  spread  forth  upon  the  bosom  of  a  four-post  bed- 
stead, for  the  entertainment  of  such  genial  company  as 
half  a  dozen  pokers,  and  a  hall  lamp.  A  set  of  window 
curtains,  with  no  wuidows  belonging  to  them,  would  be 
seen  gracefully  draping  a  barricade  of  chests  of  drawers, 
loaded  with  Uttle  jars  from  chemists'  shops ;  while  a 
homeless  hearth-rug,  severed  from  its  natural  companion 
the  fireside,  bi"aved  the  shrewd  east  wind  in  its  adversity, 
and  trembled  in  melancholy  accord  with  the  shrill  com- 
plainings of  a  cabinet  piano,  wasting  away,  a  string  a 
day,  and  faintly  resounding  to  the  noises  of  the  strt-et  in 
its  jangled  and  distracted  brain.  Of  motionless  clocks 
that  never  stirred  a  finger,  and  seemed  as  incapable  of 
being  successfully  wound  up,  as  the  pecuniary  affairs  of 
their  former  owners,  there  was  always  great  choice  in 
Mr.  Brogley's  shop ;  and  various  looking-glasses,  acci- 
dentally placed  at  compound  interest  of  reflection  and 
refraction,  presented  to  the  eye  an  eternal  perspective 
of  bankruptcy  and  ruin. 

Mr.  Brogley  himself  was  a  moist-eyed,  pink-complex- 
ioned,  crisp-haired  man,  of  a  bulky  figure  and  an  easy 
temper  —  for  that  class  of  Caius  Marius  who  sits  upon 
the  ruins  of  other  people's  Carthages,  can  keep  up  his 
spirits  well  enough.  He  had  looked  in  at  Solomon's 
shop  sometimes,  to  ask  a  question  about  articles  in  Solo- 
mon's way  of  business ;  and  Walter  knew  him  sufficiently 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  17J> 

to  give  him  good-day  when  they  met  in  the  street,  but 
BS  that  was  the  extent  of  the  broker's  acquaintance  with 
Solomon  Gills  also,  Walter  was  not  a  little  surprised 
when  he  came  back  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  agree* 
ably  to  his  promise,  to  find  Mr.  Brogley  sitting  in  the 
back-parlor  with  hi.-;  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  hat 
hanging  up  behind  the  door. 

"Well,  Uncle  Sol!"  said  Walter.  The  old  man  was 
eittmg  ruefully  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  with  his 
spectacles  over  his  eyes,  for  a  wonder,  instead  of  on  his 
forehead.     "  How  are  you  now  ?  " 

Solomon  shook  his  head,  and  waved  one  hand  towards 
the  broker,  as  introducing  him. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Walter,  with 
a  catching  in  his  breath. 

"No,  no.  There's  nothing  the  matter,"  said  Mr. 
Brogley.     "  Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way." 

Walter  looked  from  the  broker  to  his  uncle  in  mute 
amazement. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Brogley,  "  there's  a  little  pay- 
ment on  a  bond  debt  —  three  hundred  and  seventy  odd, 
overdue :  and  I'm  in  possession." 

"  In  possession ! "  cried  Walter,  looking  round  at  the 
shop. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Brogley,  in  confidential  assent,  and 
nodding  his  head  as  if  he  would  urge  tlie  advisability  of 
their  all  being  comfortable  together.  "  It's  an  execution. 
That's  what  it  is.  Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way 
I  come  myself  because  of  keeping  it  quiet  and  sociable, 
you  know  me.     It's  quite  private." 

"  Uncle  Sol !  "  faltered  Walter. 

"  Wally,  my  boy,"  returned  his  uncle.  "  It's  the  first 
nme.     Such  a  calamity  never   happened  to  me  beforer 


174  DOMBEr  AND  SON. 

I'm  an  old  man  to  begin."  Pushing  u}>  liis  spectacles 
again  (for  they  were  useless  any  longer  to  conceal  his 
emotion),  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  sobbed 
aloud,  and  his  tears  fell  down  upon  his  coffee-colored 
waistcoat. 

"Uncle  Sol!  Pray!  oh  don't!"  exclaimed  Walter, 
who  really  felt  a  thrill  of  terror  in  seeing  the  old  man 
*eep.  "  For  God's  sake  don't  do  that.  Mr.  Brogley, 
what  shall  I  do?" 

"/should  recommend  you  looking  up  a  friend  or  so," 
said  Mr.  Brogley,  "  and  talking  it  over." 

"  To  be  sure ! "  cried  Walter,  catching  at  anything. 
"  Certainly  !  Thankee.  Captain  Cuttle's  the  man,  un- 
cle. Wait  till  1  run  to  Captain  Cuttle.  Keep  your  eye 
upon  my  uncle,  will  you,  Mr.  Brogley,  and  make  him  as 
comfortable  as  you  can  while  I  am  gone  ?  Don't  de- 
spair. Uncle  Sol.  Try  and  keep  a  good  heart,  there's  a 
dear  fellow ! " 

Saying  this  with  great  fervor,  and  disregarding  the 
old  man's  broken  remonstrances,  Walter  dashed  out  of 
the  shop  again  as  hard  as  he  could  go ;  and,  having  hur- 
ried round  to  the  office  to  excuse  himself  on  the  plea  of 
his  uncle's  sudden  illness,  set  off,  full  speed,  for  Captain 
Cuttle's  residence. 

Everything  seemed  altered  as  he  ran  along  the  streets. 
There  was  the  usual  entanglement  and  noise  of  carts, 
drays,  omnibuses,  wagons,  and  foot-passengers,  but  the 
misfortune  that  had  fallen  on  the  wooden  midshipman 
made  it  strange  and  new.  Houses  and  shops  were  dif- 
ferent from  wliat  they  used  to  be,  and  bore  Mr.  Brog 
ley's  warrant  on  their  fronts  in  large  characters.  The 
broker  seemed  to  have  got  hold  of  the  very  churches ; 
for  their  spires  rose  int'  the  sky  with  an  unwonted  air 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  173 

Even  the  sky  itself  was  clianged,  and  had  an  execntioo 
in  It  plainly. 

Captain  Cuttle  lived  on  the  brink  of  a  little  canal  neat 
the  India  Docks,  where  there  was  a  swivel  bridge  which 
opened  now  and  then  to  let  some  wandering  monster  of 
B  ship  come  roaming  up  the  street  like  a  stranded  levi- 
athan. The  gradual  change  from  land  to  water,  on  the 
aiif)roach  to  Captain  Cuttle's  lodgings,  was  curious.  It 
htgan  with  the  erection  of  flag-staffs,  as  appurtenances 
to  public-houses ;  then  came  slop-sellers'  shops,  with 
Guernsey  shirts,  sou'wester  hats,  and  canvas  pantaloons, 
at  once  the  tightest  and  the  loosest  of  their  order,  hang- 
ing up  outside.  These  were  succeeded  by  anchor  and 
chain-cable  forges,  where  sledge-hammers  were  dinging 
upon  iron  all  day  long.  Then  came  rows  of  houses, 
with  little  vane-surmounted  masts  uprearing  themselves 
from  among  the  scarlet  beans.  Then,  ditches.  Then, 
pollard  willows.  Then,  more  ditches.  Then,  unac- 
countable patches  of  dirty  water,  hardly  to  be  descried, 
for  the  ships  that  covered  them.  Then,  the  air  was  per- 
fumed with  chips ;  and  all  other  trades  were  swallowed 
up  in  mast,  oar,  and  block-making,  and  boat-building. 
Then,  the  ground  grew  marshy  and  unsettled.  Then, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  smelt  but  rum  and  sugar. 
Then,  Captain  Cuttle's  lodgings — at  once  a  first  floor 
and  a  top  story,  in  Brig-place  —  were  close  before  you. 

Tlie  captain  was  one  of  those  timber-looking  men, 
Buits  of  oak  as  well  as  hearts,  whom  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible for  the  liveliest  imagination  to  separate  from  any 
part  of  their  dress,  ho\A;ever  insignificant.  Accordingly, 
when  Walter  knocked  at  the  door,  and  the  captain  in- 
stantly poked  his  head  out  of  one  of  his  little  front- 
windows,  and  hailed  him,  with  the  hard  glazed  hat  a^ 


178  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  How's  Gills  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  recovered  his  breath, 
and  lost  his  spirits  —  or  such  temporary  spirits  as  his 
rapid  journey  had  given  him  —  looked  at  his  questioner 
for  a  moment,  said  "  Oh,  Captain  Cuttle  !  "  and  burst 
into  tears. 

No  words  can  describe  the  caj)tain's  consternation  at 
this  sight.  Mrs.  INIacStinger  faded  into  nothing  before 
it.  He  dropped  the  potato  and  the  fork  —  and  would 
have  dropped  the  knife  too  if  he  could  —  and  sat  gazing 
at  the  boy,  as  if  he  expected  to  hear  next  moment  that 
a  gulf  had  opened  in  the  city,  which  had  swallowed  up 
his  old  friend,  coffee-colored  suit,  buttons,  chronometer, 
spectacles,  and  all. 

But  when  Walter  told  him  what  was  really  the  mat- 
ter. Captain  Cuttle,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  started 
up  into  full  activity.  He  emptied  out  of  a  little  tin  can- 
ister on  the  top  shelf  of  the  cupboard,  his  whole  stock 
of  ready  money  (amounting  to  thirteen  pounds  and  half 
a  crown),  which  he  transferred  to  one  of  the  pockets  of 
his  square  blue  coat ;  further  enriched  that  repository 
with  the  contents  of  his  plate  chest,  consisting  of  two 
withered  atomies  of  teaspoons,  and  an  obsolete  pair  of 
knock-knee'd  sugar-tongs  ;  pulled  up  his  immense  double- 
cased  silver  watch  from  the  depths  in  which  it  reposed, 
to  assure  himself  that  that  valuable  was  sound  and 
whole ;  ro-attached  the  hook  to  his  right  wrist ;  and 
seizing  the  stick  covered  over  with  knobs,  bade  Waltei 
come  along. 

Remembering,  however,  in  the  midst  of  his  virtuous 
excitement,  that  IVIrs.  MacStinger  might  be  lying  in 
wait  below,  Captain  Cuttle  hesitated  at  last,  not  without 
glancing  at  the  window,  as  if  he  had  some  thought  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  179 

escaping  by  that  unusual  means  of  egress,  rather  than 
encounter  his  terrible  enemy.  He  decided,  however,  in 
favor  of  stratagem. 

"  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  timid  wink,  "  go 
ftfore,  my  lad.  Sing  out,  '  good-by.  Captain  Cuttle,' 
when  you're  in  the  passage,  and  shut  the  door.  Tiien 
wait  at  the  corner  of  the  street  till  you  see  me." 

These  directions  were  not  issued  without  a  previous 
knowledge  of  the  enemy  tactics,  for  when  Walter  got 
down-stairs,  Mrs.  MacStinger  glided  out  of  the  little 
back-kitchen,  like  an  avenging  spirit.  But  not  glid- 
ing out  upon  the  captain,  as  she  had  expected,  she 
merely  made  a  further  allusion  to  the  knocker,  and 
glided  in  again. 

Some  five  minutes  elapsed  before  Captain  Cuttle  could 
summon  courage  to  attempt  his  escape ;  for  Walter 
waited  so  long  at  the  street-corner,  looking  back  at 
the  house,  before  there  were  any  symptoms  of  the 
hard  glazed  hat.  At  length  the  captain  burst  out  of 
the  door  with  the  suddenness  of  an  explosion,  and  com- 
ing towards  him  at  a  great  pace,  and  never  once  looking 
over  his  shoulder,  pretended  as  soon  as  they  were  well 
out  of  the  street,  to  whistle  a  tune. 

"  Uncle  much  hove  down,  Wal'r  ?  "  inquired  the  cap- 
tain, as  they  were  walking  along. 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  If  you  had  seen  him  this  morning, 
you  would  never  have  forgotten  it." 

"  Walk  fast,  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain, 
mending  Ins  pace  ;  "  and  walk  the  same  all  the  days 
of  your  life.  Overhaul  the  catechism  for  that  advice, 
and  keep  it !  " 

The  captain  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  of 
Solomon  Gills,  mingled  perhaps  with  some  reflt?ctions  on 


180  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

his  late  escape  from  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to  offer  any  ftir- 
ther  quotations  on  tlie  way  for  Walter's  moral  improve- 
ment. They  interchanged  no  other  word  until  they  ar- 
rived at  old  Sol's  door,  where  the  unfortunate  wooden 
midshipman,  with  his  instrument  at  his  eye,  seemed  to 
be  surveying  the  whole  horizon  in  search  of  some  fiiend 
to  help  him  oqt  of  his  difficulty. 

"  Gills  !  "  said  the  captain,  hurrying  into  the  back-par- 
lor, and  taking  him  by  the  hand  quite  tenderly.  "  Lay 
your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll  fight  through  it. 
All  you've  got  to  do,"  said  the  captain,  with  the  solem- 
nity of  a  man  who  was  delivering  himself  of  one  of  the 
most  precious  practical  tenets  ever  discovered  by  human 
wisdom,  "  is  to  lay  your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll 
fight  tlirough  it !  " 

Old  Sol  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  thanked 
him. 

Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  a  gravity  suitable  to  the 
nature  of  the  occasion,  put  down  upon  the  table  the  two 
tea-spoons  and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  silver  watch,  and  the 
ready  money  ;  and  asked  Mr.  Brogley,  the  broker,  what 
the  damage  was. 

"  Come  !  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  "  said  Captain 
Cuttle. 

"  Why,  Lord  help  you  ?  "  returned  the  broker  ;  "  yea 
don't  suppose  that  property's  of  any  use,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Why  ?  The  amount's  three  hundred  and  seventy, 
Ddd,"  replied  the  broker. 

"Never  mind,"  returned  the  captain,  though  he  wa« 
evidently  dismayed  by  the  figures  :  "  all's  fish  that  ccmes 
to  your  net,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brogley.  "  But  sprats  a'n'l 
tvhales,  you  know." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  181 

llifc  philosophy  of  this  observation  seemed  to  strike 
ihe  captain.  He  ruminated  for  a  minute  ;  eying  the 
broker,  meanwhile,  as  a  deep  genius :  and  then  called 
tha  instrument-maker  aside. 

"  Gilk,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  what's  the  bearings  of 
this  business  ?     Who's  the  creditor  ?  " 

"  Hush  ! "  returned  the  old  man.  "  Come  away.  Don't 
Bpeak  before  Wally.  It's  a  matter  of  security  for  "W al- 
ly's father  —  an  old  bond.  I've  paid  a  good  deal  of  it, 
Ned,  but  the  times  are  so  bad  with  me  that  I  can't  do 
more  just  now.  I've  foreseen  it,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
Not  a  word  before  "Wally,  for  all  the  world." 

"  You've  got  some  money,  haven't  you  ?  "  whispered 
the  captain. 

"  Yes,  yes  —  oh  yes  —  I've  got  some,"  returned  old 
Sol,  first  putting  his  hands  into  his  empty  pockets,  and 
then  squeezing  his  Welsh  wig  between  them,  as  if  he 
thought  he  might  wring  some  gold  out  of  it ;  "  but  I  — 
the  little  I  have  got,  isn't  convertible,  Ned ;  it  can't  be 
pot  at.  I  have  been  trying  to  do  something  with  it  for 
Wally,  and  I'm  old-fashioned,  and  behind  the  time.  It's 
here  and  there,  and  —  and,  in  short,  it's  as  good  as  no- 
where," said  the  old  man,  looking  in  bewilderment  about 
him. 

He  had  so  much  the  air  of  a  half-witted  pei-son  who 
had  been  hiding  his  money  in  a  variety  of  places,  and 
had  forgotten  where,  that  the  captain  followed  his  eyes, 
not  without  a  faint  hope  that  he  might  remember  some 
few  hundred  pounds  concealed  up  the  chimney,  or  down 
m  th.e  cellar.     But  Solomon  Gills  knew  better  than  that. 

"I'm  behind  the  time  altogether,  ray  dear  Ned,"  said 
Sol,  in  resigned  despair,  "  a  long  way.  It's  no  use  my 
Ugging  on  so  far  behind  it.     The  stock  had  better  b« 


180  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

his  late  escape  from  IVIrs.  MacStinger,  to  offer  any  inr- 
ther  quotations  on  the  way  for  Walter's  moral  improve- 
ment. They  interchanged  no  other  word  until  they  ar- 
rived at  old  Sol's  door,  where  the  unfortunate  wooden 
midshipman,  with  his  instrument  at  his  eye,  seemed  to 
be  surveying  the  whole  horizon  in  search  of  some  fiiend 
to  help  him  out  of  his  diflSculty. 

"  Gills !  "  said  the  captain,  hurrying  into  the  back-par- 
lor, and  taking  him  by  the  hand  quite  tenderly.  "  Lay 
your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll  fight  through  it. 
All  you've  got  to  do,"  said  the  captain,  with  the  solem- 
nity of  a  man  who  was  delivering  himself  of  one  of  tlie 
most  precious  practical  tenets  ever  discovered  by  human 
wisdom,  "  is  to  lay  your  head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll 
fight  throuprh  it !  " 

Old  Sol  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  tlianked 
him. 

Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  a  gravity  suitable  to  the 
nature  of  the  occasion,  put  down  upon  the  table  the  two 
tea-spoons  and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  silver  watch,  and  the 
ready  money  ;  and  asked  Mr.  Brogley,  the  broker,  what 
the  damage  was. 

"  Come  !  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  "  said  Captain 
Cuttle. 

"  Why,  Lord  help  you  ?  "  returned  the  broker ;  "  yon 
don't  suppose  that  property's  of  any  use,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Why  ?  The  amount's  three  hundred  and  seventy, 
add,"  replied  the  broker. 

"  Never  mind,"  returned  the  captain,  though  he  wa« 
evidently  dismayed  by  the  figures  :  "  all's  fish  that  comes 
to  your  net,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brogley.  "  But  sprats  a'n't 
whales,  you  know." 


DOMBET   AND   SON.  181 

Tilt  philosophy  of  this  observation  seemed  to  strike 
Ihe  captain.  He  ruminated  for  a  minute  ;  eying  the 
broker,  meanwhile,  as  a  deep  genius :  and  then  called 
tho  instrument-maker  aside. 

"  Gilk,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  what's  the  bearinge  of 
this  business  r     Who's  the  creditor  ?  " 

"  Hush  ! "  returned  the  old  man.  "  Come  away.  Don't 
Bpeak  before  Wally.  It's  a  matter  of  security  for  tal- 
ly's father  —  an  old  bond.  I've  paid  a  good  deal  of  it, 
Ned,  but  the  times  are  so  bad  with  me  that  I  can't  do 
more  just  now.  I've  foreseen  it,  but  I  couldn't  help  it 
Not  a  word  before  Wally,  for  all  the  world." 

"  You've  got  some  money,  haven't  you  ?  "  whispered 
the  captain. 

"  Yes,  yes  —  oh  yes  —  I've  got  some,"  returned  old 
Sol,  first  putting  his  hands  into  his  empty  pockets,  and 
then  squeezing  his  Welsh  wig  between  them,  as  if  he 
thought  he  might  wring  some  gold  out  of  it ;  "  but  I  — 
the  little  I  have  got,  isn't  convertible,  Ned ;  it  can't  be 
pot  at.  I  have  been  trying  to  do  something  with  it  for 
Wally,  and  I'm  old-fashioned,  and  behind  the  time.  It's 
here  and  there,  and  —  and,  in  short,  it's  as  good  as  no- 
where," said  the  old  man,  looking  in  bewilderment  about 
him. 

He  had  so  much  the  air  of  a  half-witted  person  who 
had  been  hiding  his  money  in  a  variety  of  places,  and 
had  forgotten  where,  that  the  captain  followed  his  eyes, 
not  without  a  faint  hope  that  he  might  remember  some 
few  hundred  pounds  concealed  up  the  chimney,  or  down 
m  ths  cellar.     But  Solomon  Gills  knew  better  than  that. 

'♦I'm  behind  the  time  altogether,  my  dear  Ned,"  said 
Sol,  in  resigned  despair,  "  a  long  way.  It's  no  use  my 
UgKins  on  so  far  behind  iU     The  stock  had  better  be 


182  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Bold  —  it's  worth  more  than  this  debt  —  and  I  had  better 
go  and  die  somewhere  on  the  balance.  I  haven't  any 
energy  left.  I  don't  understand  things.  This  had  better 
be  the  end  of  it.  Let  'em  sell  the  stock  and  take  hint 
down,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  feebly  to  the  woodeo 
midshipman,  "  and  let  us  both  be  broken  lip  together  " 

"  And  what  d'ye  mean  to  do  with  Wal'r  ?  "  said  the 
captain.  "  There,  there !  Sit  ye  down,  Gills,  sit  y€ 
down,  and  let  me  think  o'  this.  If  I  warn't  a  man  on 
B  small  annuity,  that  was  large  enough  till  to-day,  I 
hadn't  need  to  thin^  of  it-  But  you  only  lay  your 
liead  well  to  the  wind,"  said  the  captain,  again  admin- 
istering that  unanswerable  piece  of  consolation,  "  and 
you're  all  right !  " 

Old  Sol.  thanked  him  from  his  heart,  and  went  and  laid 
it  against  the  back-parlor  fireplace  instead. 

Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  and  down  the  shop  for  some 
time,  cogitating  profoundly,  and  bringing  his  bushy  black 
eyebrows  to  bear  so  heavily  on  his  nose,  like  clouds 
settling  on  a  mountain,  that  Walter  was  afraid  to  offer 
any  interruption  to  the  current  of  his  reflections.  Mr. 
Brogley,  who  was  averse  to  being  any  constraint  upon 
the  party,  and  who  had  an  ingenious  cast  of  mind, 
went,  softly  whistling,  among  the  stock  ;  rattling  weather 
glasses,  shaking  compasses  as  if  they  were  physic,  catch- 
ing up  keys  with  loadstones,  looking  throifgh  telescopes, 
endeavoring  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the  use  of 
the  globes,  setting  parallel  rulers  astride  on  to  his  nose, 
and  amusing  himself  with  other  philosophical  transao- 
tions. 

"  Wal'r ! "  said  the  captain  at  last     "  I've  got  it." 

"  Have  you.  Captain  Cuttle  ? "  cried  Walter,  witb 
grear  animation. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  183 

**  Come  this  way,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain.  "  The 
stock's  one  security.  I'm  another.  Your  governors  thti 
man  to  advance  the  money." 

*  Mr.  Dombey  !  "  faltered  Walter. 

The  captain  nodded  j^ravely.  "  Look  at  him,"  he  said, 
"  L#ook  at  Gills.  If  they  was  to  sell  off  these  things 
uow,  he'd  die  of  it.  You  know  he  would.  We  mustn't 
leave  a  stone  unturned  —  and  there's  a  stone  for  you." 

"  A  stone  !  —  Mr.  Dombey  !  "  faltered  Walter. 

"  Y^ou  run  round  to  the  office,  first  of  all,  and  see  if 
he's  there,"-  said  Captain  Cuttle,  clapping  him  on  the 
back.     "  Quick  !  " 

Walter  felt  he  must  not  dispute  the  command  —  a 
glance  at  his  uncle  would  have  determined  him  if  he 
had  felt  otherwise  —  and  disappeared  to  execute  it.  He 
Boon  returned,  out  of  breath,  to  say  that  ]Mr.  Dombey 
was  not  there.  It  was  Saturday,  and  he  had  cone  to 
Brighton. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Wal'r !"  said  the  captain,  who  seemed 
to  have  prepared  himself  for  this  contingency  in  his  ab- 
sence. "  We'll  go  to  Brighton.  I'll  back  you,  my  boy. 
I'll  back  you,  Wal'r.  We'll  go  to  Brighton  by  the  after- 
noon's coach." 

If  the  application  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  all, 
which  was  awful  to  think  of,  Walter  felt  that  he  would 
rather  prefer  it  alone  and  unassisted,  than  backed  by  the 
personal  influence  of  Captain  Cuttle,  to  which  he  hardly 
thought  Mr.  Dombey  would  attach  much  weight.  But 
us  the  captain  appeared  to  be  of  quite  another  opinion, 
mid  was  bent  upon  it,  and  as  his  friendship  was  too  zeal- 
ous and  serious  to  be  trifled  with  by  one  so  much  younger 
ihsr.n  himself,  he  forbore  to  hint  the  least  objection.  Cut- 
tle, therefore,  taking  a  hurried  leave  of  Solomon  Gills, 


[84  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

nnd  returning  the  ready  money,  the  teaspoons,  the  sugar- 
longs,  and  the  silver  watch,  to  his  pocket  —  with  a  viei^r, 
as  Walter  thought,  with  horror,  to  making  a  gorgeous 
impression  on  Mr.  Dorabey  —  bore  him  off'  to  the  coach- 
I  tTice,  without  a  minute's  delay,  and  repeatedly  assured 
him,  on  the  road  that  he  would  stick  by  him  to  *hfi.  last 


A>tmij£.i    Ai\D   SON.  185 


CHAPTER   X. 

CONTAINING     THE     SEQUEL     OF     THE     MIDSHIPMAN'S*    DIS- 
ASTER. 

Major  Bagstock,  after  long  and  frequent  observa* 
lion  of  Paul,  across  Princess's-place,  through  his  double 
barrelled  opera  glass  ;  and  after  receiving  many  minute 
reports,  daily,  weekly,  and  monthly,  on  that  subject, 
from  the  native,  who  kept  himself  in  constant  com- 
munication with  Miss  Tox's  maid  for  that  purpose ; 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Dombey,  sir,  was  a  man 
to  be  known,  and  that  J.  B.  was  the  boy  to  make  his 
acquaintance. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  maintaining  her  reserved  beha- 
vior, and  frigidly  declining  to  understand  the  major 
whenever  he  called  (which  he  often  did)  on  any  little 
fishing  excursion  connected  with  this  project,  the  major, 
in  spite  of  his  constitutional  toughness  and  slyness,  was 
fain  to  leave  the  accomplishment  of  his  desire  in  some 
measure  to  chance,  "  which,"  as  he  was  used  to  observe 
with  chuckles  at  his  club,  "  has  been  fifty  to  one  in 
favor  of  Joey  B.,  sir,  ever  since  his  elder  brother  died  of 
Yellow  Jack  in  the  West  Indies." 

It  was  some  time  coming  to  his  aid  in  the  present 
instance,  but  it  befriended  him  at  last.  "When  the  dark 
eervant,  with  full  particulars,  reported  Miss  Tox  absent 
on  Brighton  service,  the    major  was  suddenly  touched 


186  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

with  affectionate  reminiscences  of  his  friend  Bill  Bitlier- 
stone  of  Bengal,  who  had  written  to  ask  him,  if  he 
ever  went  that  wa)',  to  bestow  a  call  upon  his  only  8on. 
But  when  the  same  dark  servant  reported  Paul  at  INIrs. 
Pi|)chin's,  and  the  major,  referring  to  the  letter  favored 
by  Master  Bitlierstone  on  his  arrival  in  England  —  to 
whicli  he  had  never  had  the  least  idea  of  paying  an^ 
uttcntion  —  saw  the  opening  that  presented  itself,  he 
was  made  so  rabid  by  the  gout,  with  which  he  hap- 
pened to  be  then  laid  up,  that  he  threw  a  footstool  at 
the  dark  servant  in  return  for  his  intelligence,  and  swore 
he  would  be  the  death  of  the  rascal  before  he  had  done 
with  him  :  which  the  dark  servant  was  more  tban  half 
disposed  to  believe. 

At  length  the  major  being  released  from  his  fit,  went 
one  Saturday  growling  down  to  Brighton,  with  the  na- 
tive behind  him  :  apostrophizing  Miss  Tox  all  the  way, 
and  gloating  over  the  prospect  of  carrying  by  storm  the 
distinguished  friend  to  whom  she  attached  so  much  mys- 
tery, and  for  whom  she  had  deserted  him. 

"  Would  you,  ma'am,  would  you  !  "  said  the  major, 
straining  with  vindictiveness,  and  swelling  every  already 
Bwollen  vein  in  his  head.  "  Would  you  give  Joey  B. 
the  go-by,  ma'am  ?  Not  yet,  ma'am,  not  yet !  Damme, 
not  yet,  sir.  Joe  is  awake,  ma'am.  Bagstock  is  alive, 
sir.  J.  B.  knows  a  move  or  two,  ma'am.  Josh  has 
his  weather-ej'e  open,  sir.  You'll  find  him  tough, 
ann'am.  Tough,  sir,  tough  is  Joseph.  Tough,  and  dc- 
v\-hh  sly!" 

And  very  tough  indeed  Master  Bitherstone  found 
him,  when  he  took  that  young  gentleman  out  for  a 
walk.  But  the  major,  with  his  complexion  like  a  Stilton 
cheese,  and  his  eyes  like  a  prawn's,  went  roving  about| 


DQMBEY  AND  SON.  1^ 

perfectly  iudifferent  to  Master  Bitherstone's  amusement, 
and  dragging  Master  Bitherstone  along,  while  he  looked 
about  him  high  and  low  for  Mr.  Dombej  and  his 
children. 

In  good  time  the  major,  previously  instructed  by 
Mrs.  Pipehin,  spied  out  Paul  and  Florence,  and  bore 
down  upon  them ;  there  being  a  stately  gentleman  (Mr. 
Dorabey,  doubtless)  in  their  company.  Charging  with 
Blaster  Bitherstone  into  the  very  heart  of  the  little 
squadron,  it  fell  out,  of  course,  that  Master  Bitherstone 
spoke  to  his  fellow-sufferers.  Upon  that  the  major 
stopped  to  notice  and  admire  thera  ;  remembered  with 
amazement  that  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  them  at 
his  fi-iend  Miss  Tox's  in  Princess's-place ;  opined  that 
Paul  was  a  devilish  fine  fellow,  and  his  own  little  friend; 
inquired  if  he  remembered  Joey  B.  the  major ;  and 
finally,  with  a  sudden  recollection  of  the  conventionali- 
ties of  life,  turned  and  apologized  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"But  my  little  friend  here,  sir,"  said  the 'major, 
"makes  a  boy  of  me  again.  An  old  soldier,  sir — Major 
Bagstock,  at  your  service  —  is  not  ashamed  to  confess 
it."  Here  the  major  lifted  his  hat.  "  Damme,  sir,"  cried 
the  major  with  sudden  warmth,  "  I  envy  you."  Then 
he  recollected  himself,  and  added,  "  Excuse  my  fi'ce* 
dom." 

Mr.  Dorabey  begged  he  wouldn't  mention  it. 

"  An  old  campaigner,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  a  smoke- 
dried,  sun-burnt,  used-up,  invalided  old  dog  of  a  major, 
eir,  was  not  afraid  of  being  condemned  for  his  whim  by 
a  man  like  Mr.  Dombey.  I  have  the  honor  of  address- 
.ng  Mr.  Dombey,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  present  unworthy  representative  of  thai 
aame,  major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 


188  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

''By  G  — ,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  it's  a  great  nama 
It's  a  name,  sir,"  said  the  major  firmly,  as  if  he  defied 
Mr.  Dombey  to  contradict  him,  and  would  feel  it  hia 
painful  duty  to  bully  him  if  he  did,  "  that  is  known 
and  honored  in  the  British  possessions  abroad.  It  is  a 
name,  sir,  that  a  man  is  proud  to  recognize.  There  is 
nothing  adulatory  in  Joseph  Bagstock,  sir.  His  Royal 
Highness  the  Duke  of  York  observed  on  more  than 
one  occasion  '  there  is  no  adulation  in  Joey.  He  is  a 
plain  old  soldier  is  Joe.  He  is  tough  to  a  fault  is  Jo- 
seph : '  but  it's  a  great  name,  sir.  By  the  Lord,  it's  a 
great  name ! "  said  the  major,  solemnly. 

"  You  ai'e  good  enough  to  rate  it  higher  than  it  de- 
serves perhaps,  major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  major.  '•  My  little  friend  here,  sir, 
will  certify  for  Joseph  Bagstock  that  he  is  a  thorough- 
going, down-right,  plain-spoken,  old  Trump,  sir,  and 
nothing  more.  That  boy,  sir,"  said  the  major  in  a  lower 
tone,  **  will  live  in  history.  That  boy,  sir,  is  not  a  com- 
mon production.     Take  care  of  him,  ]\Ir.  Dombey." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  would  en- 
deavor to  do  so. 

"  Here  is  a  boy  here,  sir,"  pursued  the  major,  con- 
fidentially, and  giving  him  a  thrust  with  his  cane.  "  Son 
of  Bitherstone  of  Bengal.  Bill  Bitherstone  formerly  of 
ours.  That  boy's  father  and  myself,  sir,  were  sworn 
friends..  Wherever  you  went,  sir,  you  heard  of  nothing 
but  Bill  Bitherstone  and  Joe  Bagstock.  Am  I  blind  to 
that  boy's  defects  ?     By  no  means.     He's  a  fool,  sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  libelled  Master  Bither- 
stone of  whom  he  knew  at  least  as  much  as  the  major 
iid,  and  said,  in  quite  a  complacent  manner,  "  Really  ?  " 

**  That  is  what  he  is,  sir,"  said  the  major.     "  He's  a 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  189 

fooL  Joe  Bagstock  never  minces  matters.  The  son  of 
my  old  friend  Bill  Bitherstone  of  Bengal  is  a  bom  fool, 
sir."  Here  the  major  laughed  till  he  was  almost  black 
"  My  little  friend  is  destined  for  a  public  school,  I  pre- 
sume, Mr.  Dombey  ?  "  said  the  major  when  he  had  re* 
covered. 

"  I  am  not  quite  decided,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  I  think  not.     He  is  delicate." 

"  If  he's  delicate,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  you  are  right. 
None  but  the  tough  fellows  could  live  through  it,  sir, 
at  Sandhurst.  "We  put  each  other  to  the  torture  there, 
sir.  We  roasted  the  new  fellows  at  a  slow  fire,  and 
hung  'em  out  of  a  three  pair  of  stairs  window,  with 
their  heads  downwards.  Joseph  Bagstock,  sir,  was  held 
out  of  the  window  by  the  heels  of  his  boots  for  thirteen 
minutes  by  the  college  clock." 

The  major  might  have  appealed  to  his  countenance 
in  corroboration  of  this  story.  It  certainly  looked  as  if 
he  had  hung  out  a  little  too  long. 

"But  it  made  us  what  we  were,  sir,"  said  the  major, 
settling  his  shirt-frill.  "  We  were  iron,  sir,  and  it  forged 
us.     Are  you  remaining  here,  Mr.  Dombey  ?  " 

"  I  generally  come  down  once  a  week,  major,"  re- 
turned that  gentleman.     "  I  stay  at  the  Bedford." 

"I  shall  have  the  honor  of  calling  at  the  Bedford, 
sir,  if  you'll  permit  me,"  said  the  major.  "  Joey  B.,  sir, 
is  not  in  general  a  calling  man,  but  Mr.  Dombey's  is 
not  a  common  name.  I  am  much  indebted  to  my  little 
friend,  sir,  for  the  honor  of  this  introduction." 

Mr.  Dombey  made  a  very  gracious  reply  ;  and  Major 
Bagstock,  having  patted  Paul  on  the  head,  and  said  of 
Florence  that  her  eyes  would  play  the  devil  with  the 
youngstere  before  long — "and  the  oldsters  too,  sir,  i/ 


190  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

vou  come  to  that,"  added  the  major,  chuckling  very 
much  —  stirred  up  Master  Bitherstone  with  his  walk- 
ing-stick, and  departed  with  that  young  gentleman,  at 
R  kind  of  half-trot ;  rolling  his  head  and  coughing  with 
great  dignity,  as  he  staggered  away,  with  his  legs  very 
wide  asunder. 

In  fulfilment  of  his  promise,  the  major  afterwardg 
called  on  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  having  re- 
ferred to  the  army  list,  afterwards  called  on  the  major. 
Then  the  major  called  at  Mr.  Dorabey's  house  in  town ; 
and  came  down  again,  in  the  same  coach  as  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. In  short,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  got  on  un- 
commonly well  together,  and  uncommonly  fast :  and  Mr. 
Dombey  observed  of  the  major,  to  his  sister,  that  be- 
sides being  quite  a  military  man  he  was  really  some- 
thing more,  as  he  had  a  very  admirable  idea  of  the 
importance  of  things  unconnected  with  his  own  pro- 
fession. 

At  length  Mi*.  Dombey,  bringing  down  IMiss  Tox  and 
Mrs.  Chick  to  see  the  children,  and  finding  the  major 
again  at  Brighton,  invited  him  to  dinner  at  the  Bedford, 
and  complimented  Miss  Tox  highly,  beforehand,  on  her 
neighbor  and  acquaintance.  Notwithstanding  the  palpi- 
tation of  the  heart  which  these  allusions  occasioned  her, 
they  were  anything  but  disagreeable  to  Miss  Tox,  as 
they  enabled  her  to  be  extremely  interesting,  and  to 
manifest  an  occasional  incoherence  and  distraction  which 
she  was  not  at  all  unwilling  to  display.  The  major  gavQ 
her  abundant  opportunities  of  exhibiting  this  emotion: 
being  profuse  in  his  complaints,  at  dinner,  of  her  deser- 
tion of  him  and  Princess's-place  :  and  as  he  appeared  to 
derive  great  enjoyment  from  making  them,  they  all  got 
on  very  well. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  191 

None  the  worse  on  account  of  tlie  majot  taking  charge 
of  the  whole  conversation,  and  showiiio;  as  great  an  ap- 
petite in  that  respect  as  in  regard  of  the  various  dainties 
on  the  table,  among  which  he  may  be  almost  said  to  have 
wallowed:  greatly  to  the  aggravation  of  his  inflammatory 
tendencies.  Mr.  Dombey's  habitual  silence  and  reserve 
yielding  readily  to  this  usurpation,  the  major  felt  that  he 
was  coming  out  and  shining :  and  in  the  How  of  spirits 
thus  engendered,  rang  such  an  infinite  number  of  new 
changes  on  his  own  name  that  he  quite  astonished  him- 
self. In  a  word,  they  were  all  very  well  pleased.  The 
major  was  considered  to  possess  an  inexhaustible  fund 
of  conversation  ;  and  when  he  took  a  late  farewell,  after 
ii  long  rubber,  i\Ir.  Dombey  again  complimented  the 
bUisliing  Miss  Tox  on  her  neighbor  and  acquaintance. 

Jiut  all  the  way  home  to  his  own  hotel,  the  major 
incessantly  said  to  himself,  and  of  himself,  "  Sly,  sir  — 
sly,  sir  —  de-vil-ish  sly  !  "  And  when  he  got  there,  sat 
down  in  a  chair,  and  fell  into  a  silent  fit  of  laughter,  with 
wiiich  he  was  sometimes  oeized,  and  which  was  always 
particularly  awful.  It  held  him  so  long  on  this  occasion 
that  the  dark  servant,  who  stood  watching  him  at  a 
distance,  but  dared  not  for  his  life  approach,  twice  or 
thrice  gave  him  over  for  lost.  His  whole  form,  but 
especially  his  face  and  head,  dilated  beyond  all  former 
experience ;  and  presented  to  the  dark  man's  view,  noth- 
ing but  a  heaving  mass  of  indigo.  At  length  he  burst 
into  a  violent  paroxysm  of  coughing,  and  when  that  was 
a  little  better  burst  into  such  ejaculations  as  the  follow- 
ing:— 

''  Would  you,  ma'am,  would  you  ?  Mrs.  Dombey,  eh, 
ma'am?  I  think  not,  ma'am.  Not  while  Joe  B  cap 
put  a  spoke  in  your  wheel,  ma'am.     J.  B.'s  even  witb 


.  199  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

you  now,  ma'am.  He  Isn't  altogeiher  bowled  onl,  yet, 
lir,  isn't  Bagstock.  She's  deep,  sir,  deep,  but  Josh  ia 
deeper.  Wide  awake  is  old  Joe  —  broad  awake,  and 
staring  sir  ! "  There  was  no  doubt  of  this  hist  assertion 
being  true,  and  to  a  very  fearful  extent ;  as  it  continued 
lo  ))e  during  the  greater  part  of  tliat  night,  which  the 
major  chiefly  passed  in  similar  exclamations,  diversified 
with  fits  of  coughing  and  choking  that  startled  the  whole 
house. 

It  was  on  the  day  after  this  occasion  (being  Sunday) 
when,  as  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Chick,  and  Miss  Tox  were 
sitting  at  breakfast,  still  eulogizing  the  major,  Florence 
came  running  in  :  her  face  suffused  with  a  bright  color, 
and  her  eyes  sparkling  joyfully  :  and  cried,  — 

"  Papa  I  Papa !  Here's  Walter !  and  he  won't  come 
In." 

"Who?"  cried  Mr.  Dombey.  "What  does  she 
mean?     What  is  this?" 

"  Walter,  papa,"  said  Florence  timidly ;  sensible  of 
having  approached  the  presence  with  too  much  familiar- 
ity.    "  Who  found  me  when  I  was  lost." 

"  Does  she  mean  young  Gay,  Louisa  ?  "  inquired  Mr 
Dombey,  knitting  his  brows.  "  Really,  this  child's  man- 
ners have  become  very  boisterous.  She  cannot  mean 
young  Gay,  I  think.     See  what  it  is,  will  you." 

Mrs.  Chick  hurried  into  the  passage,  and  returned 
with  the  information  that  it  was  young  Gay,  accx)m- 
panied  by  a  very  strange-looking  person ;  and  that 
young  Gay  said  he  would  not  take  the  liberty  of  com- 
ing in,  hearing  Mr.  Dombey  was  at  breakfar:,  but  would 
wait  until  Mr.  Dombey  should  signify  that  he  might  ap- 
proach. 

"Tell  the  boy  to  come  in  now,"  said  Mr.  Dombey 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  193 

"Now,  Gay,  what  is  the  matter?  WIio  sent  you  down 
here  ?     Was  there  nobody  else  to  come  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  returned  Walter.  *'  I  have 
not  been  sent.  I  have  been  so  bold  as  to  come  6n  my 
[iwn  account,  which  I  hope  you'll  pardon  when  I  mtu- 
lion  the  cause." 

But  Mr.  Dorabey,  without  attending  to  what  he  said, 
WHS  looking  impatiently  on  either  side  of  him  (as  if  he 
were  a  pillar  in  his  way)  at  some  object  behind. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Who  is  that  r 
I  think  you  Irave  made  some  mistake  in  the  door, 
Bir." 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  sorry  to  intrude  with  any  one,  sir," 
cried  Walter,  hastily  ;  "  but  this  is  —  this  is  Captain 
Cuttle,  sir." 

"  Wal'r,  ray  lad,"  observed  the  captain  in  a  deep 
voice  :  "  stand  by  ! " 

At  the  same  time  the  captain  coming  a  little  further 
in,  brought  out  his  wide  suit  of  blue,  his  conspicuous 
fhirt-coUar,  and  his  knobby  nose  in  full  relief,  and  stood 
bowing  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  waving  his  hook  pulitely  to 
the  ladies,  with  the  hard  glazed  hat  in  his  one  hand,  and 
a  red  equator  round  his  head  which  it  had  newly  im- 
printed there. 

Mr.  Dombey  regarded  this  phenomenon  with  amaze* 
ment  and  indignation,  and  seemed  by  his  looks  to  appeal 
to  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  against  it.  Little  Paul, 
'ho  had  come  in  after  Florence,  backed  towards  Misa 
'I'ox  as  the  captain  waved  his  hook,  and  stood  en  the 
defensive. 

"  Now,  Gay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  What  have  you 
got  to  say  to  me  ? " 

Aeain  the  captain  observed,  as  a  g'.ueral  opening  of 

AOU  i.  13 


194  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tlie  conversation  that  could  not  fail  to  propitiate  all  war- 
lies,  "  Wal'r,  stand  by  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,"  began  Walter,  trembling,  and  look- 
mg  down  at  the  ground,  "  that  I  take  a  very  great  liberty 
incoming  —  indeed,  I  am  sure  I  do.  I  should  hardly 
have  had  the  courage  to  ask  to  see  you,  sir,  even  aiter 
ix>ming  down,  I  am  afraid,  if  I  had  not  overtaken  Miss 
Dombey  "  — 

"  Well ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  following  his  eyes  as  he 
glanced  at  the  attentive  Florence,  and  frowning  uncon- 
sciously as  she  encouraged  him  with  a  smile.  "  Go  on, 
if  you  please." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  observed  the  captain,  considering  it  incum- 
bent on  him,  as  a  point  of  good  breeding,  to  support  Mr. 
Dombey.     "  Well  said  !      Go  on,  Wal'r." 

Captain  Cuttle  ought  to  have  been  withered  by  the 
look  which  Mr.  Dombey  bestowed  upon  him  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  patronage.  But  quite  innocent  of  this, 
he  closed  one  eye  in  I'eply,  and  gave  Mr.  Dombey  to 
understand,  by  certain  significant  motions  of  his  hook, 
tiiat  Walter  was  a  little  bashful  at  first,  and  might  be 
expected  to  come  out  shortly. 

"  It  is  entirely  a  private  and  personal  matter  that  has 
brought  me  here,  sir,"  continued  Walter,  faltering,  "  and 
Captain  Cuttle"  — 

"  Here  !  "  interposed  the  captain,  as  an  assurance  that 
he  was  at  hand,  and  might  be  relied  upon. 

•*  Who  is  a  very  old  friend  of  my  poor  uncle's,  and  i 
most  excellent  man,  sir,"  pursued  Walter,  raising  Lia 
eyes  with  a  look  of  entreaty  in  the  captain's  behalf, 
"  was  so  good  as  to  offer  to  come  with  me,  which  I  could 
hardly  refuse." 

"  No,   no,   no,"    observed   the   captain   complacently. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  195 

'  Of  course  not.  No  call  for  refusing.  Go  on, 
Wal'r." 

"  And  therefore,  sir,"  said  Walter,  venturing  to  meet 
Mr,  Dombey's  eye,  and  proceeding  with  better  courage 
in  the  very  desperation  of  the  ease,  now  tliat  there  was 
no  avoiding  it,  "therefore  I  have  come  with  him,  sir,  to 
Bay  that  my  poor  old  uncle  is  in  very  great  aflliction  and 
distress.  That  through  the  gradual  loss  of  his  business, 
and  not  being  able  to  make  a  payment,  the  apprehension 
of  which  has  weighed  very  heavily  upon  his  mind, 
months  and  months,  as  indeed  I  know,  sir,  he  has  an 
execution  in  his  house,  and  is  in  danger  of  losing  all  he 
has,  and  breaking  his  heart.  And  that  if  you  would,  in 
your  kindness,  and  in  your  old  knowledge  of  him  as  a 
respectable  man,  do  anything  to  help  him  out  of  his  diffi- 
culty, sir,  we  never  could  thank  you  enough  for  it." 

Walter's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  spoke  ;  and  so 
did  those  of  Florence.  Her  father  saw  them  glistening, 
though  he  appeared  to  look  at  Walter  only. 

"  It  is  a  very  large  sum,  sir,"  said  Walter.  "  More 
than  three  hundred  pounds.  My  uncle  is  quite  beaten 
down  by  his  misfortune,  it  lies  so  heavy  on  him  ;  and  is 
quite  unable  to  do  anything  for  his  own  relief.  He 
doesn't  even  know  yet  that  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you. 
You  would  wish  me  to  say,  sir,"  added  Walter,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  "  exactly  what  it  is  I  want.  I  really 
don't  know,  sir.  There  is  my  uncle's  stock,  on  which  I 
believe  I  may  say,  confidently,  there  are  no  other  de- 
mands, and  there  is  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  wish  to 
36  security  too.  I  —  I  hardly  like  to  mention,"  said 
Walter,  "such  earnings  as  mine;  but  if  you  would  allow 
-hem  —  accumulate  —  payment  —  advance  —  uncle  —• 
u  iigal,  honorable  old  man."     Waltei  trailed  off  through 


196  DOMBET  AND  SON.    . 

these  broken   sentences,  into   silence;    and  stood,  witb 
downcast  head,  before  his  employer. 

Considering  this  a  favorable  moment  for  the  display 
of  the  valuables,  Captain  Cuttle  advanced  to  the  table ; 
and  clearing  a  space  among  the  breakfast-cups  at  ]y[r. 
Oombey's  elbow,  produced  the  silver  watch,  the  ready 
money,  the  teaspoons,  and  the  sugar-tongs ;  and  piling 
them  up  in  a  heap  that  they  might  look  as  precious  aa 
possible,  delivered  himself  of  these  words :  — 

"  Half  a  loaf's  better  than  no  bread,  and  the  same  nj- 
mark  holds  good  with  crumbs.  There's  a  few.  Annuity 
of  one  hundred  pound  prannum  also  ready  to  be  made 
over.  If  there  is  a  man  chock  full  of  science  in  the 
world,  it's  old  Sol  Gills.  If  there  is  a  lad  of  promise  — 
one  flowing,"  added  the  captain,  in  one  of  his  happy 
quotations,  "  with  milk  and  honey  —  it's  his  nevy  !  " 

The  captain  then  withdrew  to  his  former  place,  where 
lie  stood  arranging  his  scattered  locks  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  given  the  finishing  touch  to  a  difficult  per- 
formance. 

When  Walter  ceased  to  speak,  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes 
were  attracted  to  little  Paul,  who,  seeing  his  sister  hang- 
ing down  her  head  and  silently  weeping  in  her  commis- 
eration for  the  distress  she  had  heard  described,  went 
ov.^r  to  her,  and  tried  to  comfort  her:  looking  at  Walter 
and  his  father,  as  he  did  so,  with  a  very  expressive  face. 
After  the  momentary  distraction  of  Captain  Cuttle's  ad- 
dress, which  he  regarded  with  lofty  indifference,  Mr. 
Dambey  again  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  son,  and  sat 
steadily  regarding  tlie  child,  for  some  moments,  in  sv 
lence.  -luikif 

"  What    was   this   debt   contracted   for  ?  ''  asked  Mr 
IDombey,  at  length.     "Who  is  the  creditor?" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  19< 

**  He  don't  know,"  replied  the  captain,  putting  bis 
hand  on  Waher's  shoulder.  "  I  do.  It  came  of  helping 
a  man  that's  dead  now,  and  that's  cost  my  friend  Gills 
many  a  hundred  pound  already.  More  particulars  in 
private,  if  agreeable." 

"  People  who  have  enough  to  do  to  hold  their  own 
way,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey,  unobservant  of  the  captain's 
mysterious  signs  behind  Walter,  and  still  looking  at  hid 
son,  "  had  better  be  content  with  their  own  obligations 
and  difficulties,  and  not  increase  them  by  engaging  for 
other  men.  It  is  an  act  of  dishonesty,  and  presumption 
too,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly  ;  "  great  presumption  ; 
for  the  wealthy  could  do  no  more.     Paul,  come  here  ! " 

The  child  obeyed :  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  him  on  hia 
knee. 

"  If  you  had  money  now  "  —  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
«  Look  at  me  !  " 

Paul,  whose  eyes  had  wandered  to  his  sister,  and  to 
Walter,  looked  his  father  in  the  face. 

'•  If  you  had  money  now,"  said  Mr.  Dombey;  "as 
much  money  as  young  Gay  has  talked  about ;  what 
would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Give  it  to  his  old  uncle,"  returned  Paul. 

"  Lend  it  to  his  old  uncle,  eh  ?  "  retorted  Mr.  Dorabey. 
"  Well !  When  you  are  old  enough,  you  know,  you  will 
Bhare  my  money,  and  we  shall  use  it  together." 

"  Dombey  and  Son,"  interrupted  Paul,  who  had  been 
tutored  early  in  the  phrase. 

"Dombey  and  Son,"  repeated  his  father.  "Would 
you  like  to  begin  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  now,  and  lend 
'.his  money  to  young  Gay's  uncle  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  if  you  please,  papa  !  "  said  Paul ;  "  and  -flO 
vould  Florence." 


198  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  Girls,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  have  nothing  to  do  with 
Dombey  and  Son.     Would  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa,  yes  !  " 

"  Then  you  shall  do  it,"  returned  his  father.  "  And 
jrou  see,  Paul,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  "  how  pow- 
erful money  is,  and  how  anxious  people  are  to  get  it. 
Young  Gay  comes  all  this  way  to  beg  for  money,  and 
you,  who  arc  so  grand  and  great,  having  got  it,  are  going 
to  let  him  have  it,  as  a  great  favor  and  obligation." 

Paul  turned  I'lp  the  old  face  for  a  moment,  in  which 
there  was  a  sharp  understanding  of  the  reference  con- 
veyed in  these  words  ;  but  it  was  a  young  and  childisli 
face  immediately  afterwards,  when  he  slipped  down  from 
his  father's  knee,  and  ran  to  tell  Florence  not  to  cry  any 
more,  for  he  was  going  to  let  young  Gay  have  the 
money. 

Mr.  Dombey  then  turned  to  a  side-table,  and  wrote  a 
note  and  sealed  it.  During  the  interval,  Paul  and  Flor- 
ence whispered  to  Walter,  and  Captain  Cuttle  beamed 
on  the  three,  with  such  aspiring  and  ineffably  presump- 
tuous thoughts  as  Mr.  Dombey  never  could  have  be- 
lieved in.  The  note  being  finished,  Mr.  Dombey  turned 
round  to  his  former  place,  and  held  it  out  to  Walter. 

"  Give  that,"  he  said,  "  the  first  thing  tu-morrow  morn- 
ing, to  Mr.  Carker.  He  will  immediately  take  care  that 
one  of  my  people  releases  your  uncle  from  his  present 
position,  by  paying  the  amount  at  issue  ;  and  that  such 
'arrangements  are  made  for  its  repayment  as  may  be  con- 
sistent with  your  uncle's  circumstances.  You  will  con- 
sider that  this  is  done  for  you  by  Master  Paul." 

Walter,  in  the  emotion  of  holding  in  his  hand  th« 
mesms  of  releasing  his  good  uncle  from  his  trouble, 
Irould   have   endeavored    to   express   something  of  his 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  199 

gratitude  and  joy.  But  Mr.  Dombey  stopped  liim 
Miort. 

"  Yon  will  consider  that  it  is  done,"  lie  repeated,  **  by 
Master  Paul.  I  have  explained  that  to  liim,  and  ho  urv* 
derstands  it.     I  wish  no  more  to  be  said." 

As  he  motioned  towards  the  door,  Walter  cculd  only 
bow  his  head  and  retire.  Miss  Tox,  seeing  that  the  eap- 
taiu  appeared  about  to  do  the  same,  interposed. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  she  said,  addressing  INIr.  Dombey,  a{ 
wliose  munificence  both  she  and  Mrs.  Chick  were  shed- 
ding tears  copiously ;  "  I  think  you  have  overlooked 
something.  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Dombey,  I  think,  in  the 
nobility  of  your  character,  and  its  exalted  scope,  you 
have  omitted  a  matter  of  detail." 

'•  Indeed,  Miss  Tox  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  The  gentleman  with  the Instrument,"  pursued 

Miss  Tox,  glancing  at  Captain  Cuttle,  "has  left  upon 
the  table,  at  your  elbow  "  — 

"  Good  Heaven  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sweeping  the 
captain's  property  from  him,  as  if  it  were  so  much 
crumb  indeed.  ''  Take  these  things  away.  I  am  obliged 
to  you,  Miss  Tox ;  it  is  like  your  usual  discretion. 
Have  the  goodness  to  take  these  things  away,  sir ! " 

Captftin  Cuttle  felt  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  com- 
ply. But  he  was  so  much  struck  by  the  magnanimity 
of  Mr.  Dombey,  in  refusing  treasures  lying  heaped  up 
to  his  hand,  that  when  he  had  deposited  the  teaspoons 
and  sugar-tongs  in  one  pocket,  and  the  ready  money  in 
another,  and  had  lowered  the  great  watch  down  slo'-vly 
into  its  proper  vault,  he  could  not  refrain  from  seizing 
that  gentleman's  right  hand  in  his  own  solitary  left,  and 
while  he  held  it  open  with  his  powerful  fingers,  bringing 
the  hook  d^wn  upon  its  palm  in  a  transport  of  admi< 


200  DO:\rBET  AND  SO^. 

ration.  Al  this  touch  of  warm  feeling  and  cold  iron. 
Ml-.  Domhey  shivered  all  over. 

Captain  Cuttle  then  kissed  bis  hook  to  the  ladies  sev- 
eral times,  with  jrreat  elegance  and  gallantry  ;  and  hav- 
ing taken  a  particular  leave  of  Paul  and  Florence,  ac- 
companied Walter  out  of  the  room.  Florence  was  run- 
ning after  them  in  the  earnestness  of  her  heart,  to  send 
some  message  to  old  Sol,  when  ]\Ir.  Dorabcy  called  her 
back,  and  bade  her  stay  where  she  was. 

•*  Will  you  never  be  a  Dombey,  my  dear  child  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Chick  with  pathetic  reproachfulness. 

"  Dear  aunt."  said  Florence.  "  Don't  be  angry  with 
rae.     I  am  so  thankful  to  Papa !  " 

She  would  have  run  and  thrown  her  arms  about  his 
neck  if  she  had  dared;  but  as  she  did  not  dare,  she 
glanced  with  thankful  eyes  towards  him.  as  he  sat  mus- 
ing ;  sometimes  bestowing  an  uneasy  glance  on  her,  but 
for  the  most  part,  watching  Paul,  who  walked  about  the 
room  with  the  new-blown  dignity  of  having  let  young 
Gay  have  the  money. 

And  young  Gay  — Walter —  what  of  him  ? 

He  was  overjoyed  to  purge  the  old  man's  hearth  from 
bailiffs  and  brokers,  and  to  hurry  back  to  his  uncle  with 
the  good  tidings.  He  was  overjoyed  to  have  it  all  ar- 
ranged and  settled  next  day  before  noon ;  and  to  sit 
down  at  evening  in  the  little  back  parlor  with  old  Sol 
j.nd  Captain  Cuttle ;  and  to  see  the  Instrument-maker 
already  reviving,  and  hopeful  for  the  future,  and  feeling 
that  the  wooden  midshipman  was  his  own  again.  But 
without  the  least  impea<-hment  of  his  gratitude  to  ^Mr. 
Dombey,  it  must  he.  confessed  that  Walter  was  humbled 
Hnd  cast  down.  It  is  when  our  budding  hopes'are  nipped 
ueyond  retjovcry  by  some  rough  wind,  that  we  are  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Ml 

most  disposed  to  picture  to  ourselves  what  flowers  they 
might  have  borne,  if  they  had  flourished ;  and  now. 
when  Walter  felt  himself  cut  off  from  that  great  Doinbey 
height,  by  the  depth  of  a  new  and  terrible  tumble,  and 
felt  that  all  his  old  wild  fancies  had  been  scattered  to  the 
winds  in  the  fall,  he  began  to  suspect  that  they  migbi 
have  led  him  on  to  harmless  visions  of  aspiring  to  Floi 
ence  in  the  remote  distance  of  time. 

The  captain  viewed  the  subject  in  quite  a  different 
light.  lie  appeared  to  entertain  a  belief  that  the  inter- 
view at  which  he  had  assisted  was  so  very  satisfactory 
and  encouraging,  as  to  be  only  a  step  or  two  remove*) 
from  a  regular  betrothal  of  Florence  to  Walter;  and 
that  the  late  transaction  had  immensely  forwarded,  it 
not  thoroughly  established,  the  Whittingtonian  hopes 
Stimulated  by  this  conviction,  and  by  the  improvement 
in  tiie  spirits  of  his  old  friend,  and  by  his  own  conse- 
quent gayety,  he  even  attempted,  in  favoring  them  with 
the  ballad  of  "  Lovely  Peg  "  for  the  third  time  in  one 
evening,  to  make  an  extemporaneous  substitution  of  the 
name  "  Florence  ;  "  but  finding  this  difficult,  on  account 
of  the  word  Peg  invariably  rhyming  to  leg  (in  which 
personal  beauty  the  original  was  described  as  having 
excelled  all  competitors),  he  hit  upon  the  happy  thought 
of  changing  it  to  Fie — e — eg  ;  which  he  accordingly  did, 
with  an  archness  almost  supernatural,  and  a  voioe  quite 
vociferous,  notwithstanding  that  the  time  was  clo«e  at 
hand  when  he  must  seek  the  abode  of  the  drewlful  Mrp- 
llacStinger 


802  DOHBET  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
padl's  ixtroduction  to  a  new  scens. 

Mrs.  PircniN's  constitution  was  made  of  such  hard 
metal,  in  spite  of  its  liability  to  the  fles^lily  weaknessea 
of  standing  in  need  of  repose  after  chops,  and  of  requir- 
ing to  be  coaxed  to  sleep  by  tiie  soporific  agency  of 
sweetbreads,  tlmt  it  utterly  set  at  nought  the  predictions 
of  Mrs.  Wickam,  and  showed  no  symptoms  of  decline. 
Yet,  as  Paul's  rapt  interest  in  the  old  lady  continued 
unabated,  Mrs.  Wickam  would  not  budge  an  inch  from 
the  position  she  had  taken  up.  Fortifying  and  entrench- 
ing herself  on  the  strong  ground  of  her  uncle's  Betsey 
Jane,  she  advised  Miss  Berry,  as  a  friend,  to  prepare 
IxM-sflf  for  the  worst ;  and  forewarned  her  that  her  aunt 
might,  at  any  time,  be  expected  to  go  off  suddenly,  like 
R  powder-mill. 

Poor  Berry  took  it  all  in  good  part,  and  drudged  and 
slaved  away  as  usual ;  perfectly  convinced  that  Mrs. 
"^ipchin  was  one  of  the  most  meritorious  persons  in  the 
world,  and  making  every  day  innumerable  <;a''rifices  of 
herself  upon  the  altar  of  that  noble  old  woman.  But 
ail  these  immolations  of  Berry  were  somehow  carried  to 
the  credit  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  by  Mrs.  Pipchin's  friends  and 
admirers ;  and  were  made  to  harmonize  with,  and  carry 
out,  that  melancholy  fact  of  the  deceased  Mr.  Pipohiti 
havizig  broken  his  heart  in  the  Peruvian  mines. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  208 

For  example,  there  was  an  honest  grocer  and  general 
dealer  in  the  retail  line  of  business,  between  whom  and 
Mrs.  Pipchin  there  was  a  small  memorandum  book,  with 
a  greasy  red  cover,  perpetually  in  question,  and  concern- 
ing which  divers  secret  councils  and  conferences  were 
continually  being  held  between  the  parties  to  the  regis- 
ter, on  the  mat  in  the  passage,  and  with  closed  doors  ia 
the  parlor.  Nor  were  there  wanting  dark  hints  from 
Mastei-  Bitherstoue  (whose  temper  had  been  made  re- 
vengeful by  the  solar  heats  of  India  acting  on  his  blood), 
of  balances  unsettled,  and  of  a  failure,  on  one  occasioa 
within  his  memory,  in  the  supply  of  moist  sugar  at  tea- 
time.  This  grocer  being  a  bachelor  and  not  a  man  who 
looked  upon  the  surface  for  beauty,  had  once  made  hon- 
orable oifers  for  the  hand  of  Berry,  which  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had,  with  contumely  and  scorn,  rejected-  Everybody 
said  how  laudable  this  was  in  Mrs.  Pipchin,  relict  of  a 
man  who  had  died  of  the  Peruvian  mines;  and  what 
a  stanch,  high,  independent  spirit,  the  old  lady  had. 
But  nobody  said  anything  about  poor  Berry,  who  cried 
for  six  weeks  (being  soundly  rated  by  her  good  aunt  all 
the  time),  and  lapsed  into  a  state  of  liopeless  spinster- 
hood. 

"  Berry's  very  fond  of  you,  a'n't  she  ? "  Paul  once 
aaked  Mrs.  Pipciiin  when  tliey  were  sitting  by  the  fiie 
with  the  cat. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Why  !  "  returned  the  disconcerted  old  lady.  "  How 
can  you  ask  such  things,  sir !  why  are  you  fond  of  yout 
sfster  Florence  ?  " 

"Because  she's  very  good, '  said  Paul.  "There's  no« 
body   'ike  Floivnce."  , 


204  -      DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

>  Well  I  "  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shortly,  «  and  thera's 
nobody  like  me,  I  suppose." 

'*  A'n't  there  really  though  ?  "  asked  Paul,  leaning  for- 
ward in  his  chair,  and  looking  at  her  very  hard. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  observed  Paul,  rubbing  his  Iiands 
thoughtfully.     "  That's  a  very  good  thing." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  didn't  dare  to  ask  him  why,  lest  she 
should  receive  some  perfectly  annihilating  answer.  But 
as  a  compensation  to  her  wounded  feelings,  she  harassed 
Master  Bithei'stone  to  that  extent  until  bedtime,  that  he 
began  that  very  night  to  make  arrangements  for  an  over- 
land return  lo  India,  by  secreting  from  his  supper  a 
quarter  of  a  round  of  bread  and  a  fragment  of  moist 
Dutch  cheese,  as  the  beginning  of  a  stock  of  provision 
to  support  him  on  the  voyage. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  had  kept  watch  and  ward  over  little 
Paul  and  his  sister  for  nearly  twelve  months.  Tiiey 
had  been  home  twice,  but  only  for  a  few  days ;  and  had 
been  constant  in  their  weekly  visits  to  Mr.  Dombey  at 
the  hotel.  By  little  and  little  Paul  had  grown  stronger, 
and  had  become  able  to  dispense  with  his  carriage  i 
though  he  still  looked  thin  and  delicate ;  and  still  re- 
mained the  same  old,  quiet,  dreamy  child,  that  he  had 
been  when  first  consigned  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  care.  One 
Saturday  afternoon,  at  dusk,  great  consternation  was  oc- 
casioned in  the  castle  by  the  unlooked-for  announcement 
-of  Mr.  Dombey  as  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Pipchin.  The  pop- 
ulation of  the  parlor  was  immediately  swept  up-stairs  a6 
on  the  wings  of  a  whirlwind,  and  after  much  slamming 
of  bedroom  doors,  and  trampling  overhead,  and  some 
knocking  about  of  Master  Bitherstone  by  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
9&  a  relief  to  the  perturbation  of  her  spirits,  the  blaclr 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  205 

bombazine  garments  of  the  worthy  olil   lady  darkened 
tlie  audience-chamber  where  Mr.  Dombey  was  contem- 
plating the  vacant  arm-chair  of  his  son  and  heir. 
"  ]Mrs.    Pipchin,"  said   Mr.    Dombey,    "  how  do    you 

ao?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  am  pretty 
well,  considering." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  always  used  that  form  of  words.  It 
woant,  considering  her  virtues,  sacrifices,  and  so  forth. 

'•'  I  can't  expect,  sir,  to  be  very  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Vipcliin,  taking  a  chair,  and  fetching  her  breath ;  "  but 
iuch  health  as  I  have,  I  am  grateful  for." 

Ml".  Dombey  inclined  his  head  with  the  satisfied  air 
of  a  patron,  who  felt  that  this  was  the  sort  of  thing  for 
which  he  paid  so  much  a  quarter.  After  a  moment's 
cilence  he  went  on  to  say :  — 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling,  to 
consult  you  in  reference  to  my  sen.  I  have  had  it  in 
•ny  mind  to  do  so  for  some  time  past ;  but  have  deferred 
it  from  time  to  time,  in  order  that  his  health  might  be 
thoroughly  reestablished.  You  have  no  rai.-givings  ou 
that  subject,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  " 

"  Brighton  has  proved  very  beneficial,  sii-,"  returned 
Mrs.  Pipchin.     "  Very  beneficial,  indeed." 

"  1  purpose,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  liis  remaining  at 
lirighton." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  rubbed  her  hands,  and  bent  her  gray 
eyes  on  the  fire. 

"  But,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  stretching  out  his  fore- 
dngtir,  "  but  possibly  that  he  should  now  make  a  change, 
and  lead  a  different  kind  of  life  here.  In  short,  Mra, 
Pipchin,  that  is  the  object  of  my  visit.  My  son  is  get- 
ting  on,  Mrs.  Pipchin.     Really,  he  is  getting  on." 


206  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

There  was  something  melancholy  in  the  triumphani 
ftir  witli  whicli  Mr.  Doinbey  said  this.  It  showed  how 
long  Paul's  childish  lite  had  been  to  him,  and  how  his 
hopes  were  set  upon  a  later  stage  of  his  existence.  Pity 
ttiay  appear  a  strange  word  to  connect  with  any  one  so 
haughty  and  so  cold,  and  yet  he  seemed  a  worthy  subject 
for  it  at  that  mojnent. 

**  Six  years  old  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neck- 
cloth—  perhaps  to  hide  an  irrepressible  smile  that  rather 
seemed  to  strike  upon  the  surface  of  his  face  and  glance 
away,  as  finding  no  resting  place,  than  to  play  there  for 
an  instant.  "  Dear  me,  six  will  be  changed  to  sixteen, 
before  we  have  time  to  look  about  us." 

"  Ten  years,"  croaked  the  unsympathetic  Pipchvn,  with 
a  frosty  glistening  of  her  hard  gray  eye,  and  a  dreary 
shaking  of  her  bent  head,  "  is  a  long  time." 

"It  depends  on  circumstances,"  returned  Mr.  Dom- 
bey;  "at  all  events,  Mrs.  Pipcliin,  ray  son  is  six  years 
old,  and  there  is  no  doubt,  I  fear,  that  in  his  studies  he 
is  behind  many  children  of  his  age  —  or  his  youth,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  quickly  answering  what  he  mistrusted  was 
A  shrewd  twinkle  of  the  frosty  eye,  "  his  youth  is  a  moi-e 
appropriate  expression.  Now,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  instead  of 
being  behind  his  peers,  my  son  ought  to  be  before  them : 
fai"  before  them.  There  is  an  eminence  ready  for  him  to 
mount  upon.  There  is  nothing  of  chance  or  doubt  in  the 
course  before  my  son.  His  way  in  life  was  clear  and 
prepared,  and  marked  out,  before  he  existed.  The  e«lu- 
3Btion  of  such  a  young  gentleman  must  not  be  delayed 
It  must  not  be  left  imperfect.  It  must  be  very  steadily 
*nd  seriously  undertaken.  Mi's.  Pipchin." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  can  say  nothing  to 
the  contrar}'." 


DOJIBEY  AND  SON.  207 

"I  waa  quite  sure,  Mi-s.  Pipchin,"  returned  Mr.  Dom- 
hej,  appiovingly,  "  that  a  person  of  your  good  sense 
could  not,  and  would  not." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  —  and  worse  — 
talked  about  young  people  not  being  pressed  too  hard  at 
first,  and  being  tempted  on,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  sir," 
said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  impatiently  rubbing  her  hooked  nose. 
"It  never  was  thought  of  in  my  time,  and  it  has  no  busi- 
ness to  be  thought  of  now.  My  opinion  is  '  keep  'em  at 
it'" 

"  My  good  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  vou  have 
not  acquired  your  reputation  undeservedly ;  and  I  beg 
you  to  believe,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  I  am  more  than  satis- 
fied with  your  excellent  system  of  management,  and  shall 
have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  commending  it  whenever 
my  poor  commendation"  —  Mr.  Dombey's  loftiness  when 
he  afl'ected  to  disparage  his  own  importance,  passed  all 
bounds  —  "can  be  of  any  service.  1  have  been  think- 
ing of  Doctor  Blimber's,  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  My  neighbor,  sir  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  believ<» 
the  doctor's  is  an  excellent  establishment.  I've  hear^ 
that  it's  very  strictly  conducted,  and  that  there's  notb 
ing  but  leaj-ning  going  on  from  morning  to  night." 

"  And  it's  very  expensive,"  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  And  it's  very  expensive,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin 
catching  at  the  fact,  as  if  in  omitting  that  she  had  onjitteO 
OJJe  of  its  leading  merits. 

"I  have  had  some  communication  with  the  do'!tor, 
Mrs  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  hitcJiing  his  chair  anx- 
iously a  little  nearer  to  the  fire,  "and  lie  does  not  con- 
sider Paul  at  all  too  young  for  his  purpose.  He  men- 
tioned several  instances  of  boys  in  Greek  at  about  the 
lamo  age.     If  I  have  any  little  uneasiness  in  my  own 


208  DOMBEY  AND  SOH. 

mind,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  on  the  subject  of  this  change,  it  is 
not  on  that  head.  My  son  not  having  known  a  mother 
has  gradually  concentrated  much  —  too  much — of  bia 
childish  affection  on  his  sister.  Whether  their  separa- 
tion "  —     Mr.  Dombey  said  no  more,  but  sat  silent. 

"  Hoity-toity !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  out 
her  black  bombazine  skirts,  and  plucking  up  all  the 
ogress  within  her.  "  If  she  don't  like  it,  Mr.  Donjbcy, 
she  must  be  taught  to  lump  it."  The  good  lady  apolo- 
gized immediately  afterwards  for  using  so  common  a 
figure  of  speech,  but  said  (and  truly)  that  that  was  the 
way  she  reasoned  with  *em. 

Mi-.  Dombey  waited  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  done 
bridling  and  shaking  her  head,  and  frowning  down  a 
legion  of  Bitherstones  and  Pankeys ;  and  then  said 
quietly,  but  correctively,  "  He,  my  good  madam,  he." 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  sy.-tem  would  have  applied  very  much 
the  same  mode  of  cure  to  any  uneasiness  on  the  part  of 
Paul,  too ;  but  as  the  hard  gray  eye  was  sharp  enough 
to  see  that  the  recipe,  however  Mr.  Dombey  might  ad- 
rait  its  efficacy  in  the  cjise  of  the  daughter,  was  not  a 
sovereign  remedy  for  the  son,  she  argued  the  point ;  and 
contended  that  change,  and  new  society,  and  the  differ- 
ent form  of  life  he  would  lead  at  Doctor  Bliraber's,  and 
the  studies  he  would  have  to  master,  would  very  soon 
prove  sufficient  alienations.  As  this  chimed  in  with  Mr. 
Dorabey's  own  hope  and  belief,  it  gave  that  gentleman  a 
still  higher  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  understandinn; ; 
and  as  Mrs.  Pipchin,  at  the  same  time,  bewailed  tha 
loss  of  her  dear  little  friend  (which  was  not  an  ovrr- 
whelming  shock  to  her,  as  she  had  long  expected  it,  and 
had  not  looked,  in  the  beginning,  for  his  remaining  with 
her  longer  than   three  months),  he  formed  an  equally 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  203 

good  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  disinterestedness.  It  was 
plain  that  Ik;  had  given  the  subject  anxious  considera- 
tion, for  he  iiad  formed  a  plan,  which  he  announced  lo 
the  ogress,  of  sending  Paul  to  the  docior's  as  a  weekly 
boarder  for  the  fir-;t  half  year,  during  which  time  Flor 
ence  would  remain  at  the  csistle,  that  she  might  receive 
her  brother  there,  on  Saturdays.  This  would  wean  hin, 
by  degrees,  Mr.  Dombey  said  :  probably  wiih  a  recollec- 
tion of  his  not  having  been  weaned  by  degrees  on  ? 
former  occasion. 

Mr.  Dombey  finished  the  interview  by  expressing  his 
hope  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  would  still  remain  in  office  aa 
general  superintendent  and  overseer  of  his  son,  pending 
his  studies  at  Brighton ;  and  having  kissed  Paul,  and 
shaken  hands  with  Florence,  and  beheld  Master  Bither- 
stone  in  his  collar  of  state,  and  made  Miss  Pankey  cry 
by  patting  her  on  the  head  (in  which  region  she  was  un- 
commonly tender,  on  account  of  a  habit  Mrs.  Pipchin 
had  of  sounding  it  with  her  knuckles,  like  a  cask),  he 
withdrew  to  his  hotel  and  dinner :  resolved  that  Paul, 
now  that  he  was  getting  so  old  and  well,  should  begin  a 
vigorous  course  of  education  forthwith,  to  qualify  him 
for  the  position  in  which  he  was  to  shine ;  and  that 
Doctor  Blimber  should  take  him  in  hand  immediately. 

Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  taken  in  hand  by 
Doctor  Blimber,  he  might  consider  himself  sure  of  a 
pretty  tight  squeeze.  The  doctor  only  undertook  the 
charge  of  ten  young  gentlemen,  but  he  had,  alwajra 
leady,  a  supply  of  learning  for  a  hundred,  on  the  lowest 
estimate  ;  and  it  was  at  once  the  business  and  delight  of 
his  life  to  gorge  the  unhappy  ten  with  it. 

In  fact.  Doctor  Blimber's  establishment  was  a  great 
hot-house,  in  wnich  there  was  a  fercing  apparatus  ince* 

VOL.   I.  14 


210  DOMBEY  AND  SOU. 

Bantly  at  work.  All  the  boys  blew  before  their  time. 
Mental  green-peas  were  produced  at  Christmas,  and  in- 
tellectual asparagus  all  the  year  round.  Mathematical 
gooseberries  (very  sour  ones  too)  were  common  at  un- 
timely seasons,  and  from  mere  sprouts  of  bushes,  under 
Doctor  Bliniber's  cultivation.  Every  description  of 
Greek  and  Latin  vegetable  was  got  off  tiie  driest 
twigs  of  boys,  under  the  frostiest  circumstances.  Na- 
ture was  of  no  consequence  at  all.  No  matter  what  a 
young  gentleman  was  intended  to  bear,  Doctor  Blimber 
made  him  bear  to  pattern,  somehow  or  other. 

This  was  all  very  pleasant  and  ingenious,  but  the  sys- 
tem of  forcing  was  attended  with  its  usual  disadvantages. 
There  was  not  the  right  taste  about  tlie  premature  pro- 
ductions, and  they  didn't  keep  well.  Moreover,  one 
young  gentleman,  with  a  swollen  nose  and  an  exces- 
sively large  head  (the  oldest  of  the  ten  who  had  "■  gone 
through  "  everything),  suddenly  left  off  blowing  one  day, 
and  remained  in  the  establishment  a  mere  stalk.  And 
people  did  say  that  the  doctor  had  rather  overdone  it 
with  young  Toots,  and  that  when  he  began  to  have 
whiskers  he  left  off  having  brains. 

There  young  Toots  was,  at  any  rate  ;  possessed  of  the 
gruffest  of  voices  and  the  shrillest  of  minds  ;  sticking 
ornamental  pins  into  his  shirt,  and  keeping  a  ring  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket  to  put  on  his  little  finger  by  stealth, 
when  the  pupils  went  out  walking;  constantly  falling  in 
love  by  sight  with  nursery-maids,  who  had  no  idea  of  his 
exist3nce  ;  and  looking  at  the  gas-lighted  world  over  the 
little  iron  bars  in  the  left  hand  corner  window  of  the 
front  three  pairs  of  stairs,  after  bedtime,  like  a  greatly 
overgrown  cherub  who  had  sat  up  aloft  much  too  long. 

The  doctor  was  a  portly  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  black 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  211 

with  strings  at  his  knees,  and  stockings  l>elow  tliem.  He 
had  a  bald  head,  highly  polished ;  a  deej)  voice  ;  aud  a 
chin  so  very  double,  that  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  ever 
managed  to  shave  into  the- creases.  He  had  likewise  a  paii 
of  little  eyes  that  were  always  half-shut  up,  and  a  mouth 
that  was  always  half  expanded  into  a  grin,  as  if  he  had, 
that  moment,  posed  a  boy,  and  were  waiting  to  convict 
hira  from  his  .own  lips.  Insomuch,  that  when  the  doctor 
put  his  right  hand  into  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  witl^ 
his  other  hand  behind  him,  and  a  scarcely  perceptible 
wag  of  his  head,  made  the  commonest  observation  to 
a  nervous  stranger,  it  was  like  a  sentiment  from  the 
Ephinx,  and  settled  his  business. 

The  doctor's  was  a  mighty  fine  house,  fronting  the  sea. 
Not  a  joyful  style  of  house  within,  but  quite  the  con- 
trary. Sad-colored  curtains,  whose  proportions  were 
spare  and  lean,  hid  themselves  despondently  behind  the 
windows.  The  tables  and  chairs  were  put  away  in  rows, 
like  figures  in  a  sura :  fires  were  so  rarely  lighted  in  the 
rooms  of  ceremony,  that  they  felt  like  wells,  and  a  visitor 
represented  the  bucket ;  the  dining-room  seemed  tlie  last 
place  in  the  world  where  any  eating  or  drinking  was 
likely  to  occur ;  there  was  no  sound  through  all  the 
house  but  the  ticking  of  a  great  clock  in  the  hall, 
which  made  itself  audible  in  the  very  garrets;  and 
Bometimes  a  dull  crying  of  young  gentlemen  at  their 
lessons,  like  the  murmurings  of  an  assemblage  of  mel- 
ancholy pigeons. 

Miss  Blimber,  too,  although  a  slim  and  graceful  maid, 
did  no  soft  violence  to  the  gravity  of  the  house.  There 
was  no  light  nonsense  about  Miss  Blimber.  She  kept 
ner  hair  short  and  crisp,  and  wore  spectacles.  She  was 
»Iry  and  sandy  with  working  in  the  graves  of  deceased 


212  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

languages.  None  of  your  live  languages  for  Miss  Blim- 
ber.  They  must  be  dead  —  stone  dead  —  and  then  Miss 
Blimber  dug  them  up  like  a  Ghoul. 

Mrs.  Blimber,  her  mamma,  was  not  learned  herself 
but  she  pretended  to  be,  and  that  did  quite  as  well.  She 
said  at  evening  parties,  that  if  she  could  have  known 
Cicero,  she  thought  she  could  have  died  contented.  It 
was  the  steady  joy  of  her  life  to  see  the  doctor's  young 
gentlemen  go  out  walking,  unlike  all  other  young  gen- 
tlemen, in  the  largest  possible  shirt-collars  and  the  stiffest 
possible  cravats.  It  was  so  classical,  she  said. 
V  As  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  Doctor  Blimber's  assistant, 
he  was  a  kind  of  human  barrel-organ,  with  a  little  list 
of  tunes  at  which  he  was  continually  working,  over  and 
over  again,  without  any  variation.  He  might  have  been 
fitted  up  with  a  change  of  barrels,  perhaps,  in  early  life, 
if  his  destiny  had  been  favorable  ;  but  it  had  not  been ; 
and  he  had  only  one,  with  which,  in  a  monotonous  round, 
it  was  his  occupation  to  bewilder  the  young  ideas  of 
Doctor  Blimber's  young  gentlemen.  The  young  gentle- 
men were  prematurely  full  of  carking  anxieties.  Theji 
knew  no  rest  from  the  pursuit  of  stony-hearted  verbs, 
savage  noun-substantives,  inflexible  syntactic  passages, 
and  ghosts  of  exercises  that  appeared  to  them  in  their 
dreams.  Under  the  forcing  system,  a  young  gentleman 
usually  took  leave  of  his  spirits  in  three  weeks.  He 
had  all  the  cares  of  the  world  on  his  head  in  three 
months.  He  conceived  bitter  sentiments  against  his  par- 
ents or  guardians  in  four  ;  he  was  an  old  misanthrope, 
in  five  ;  envied  Curtius  that  blessed  refuge  in  the  earth, 
in  six ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  twelvemonth  had 
arrived  at  the  conclusion,  from  which  he  never  after* 
wards  departed,  that  all  tie  fancies  of  the  po<}t8,  and 


D0MI5EY  AND  SON.  213 

lessons  of  the  sages,  were  a  mere  colleetion  of  words 
and  giaiBmar,  and  had  no  other  meaning  in  the  world. 

But  he  went  on,  blow,  blow,  blowing,  in  the  DoctorV 
hot-house,  all  the  time ;  and  the  doctor's  glory  and  rep" 
utntion  were  great,  when  he  took  his  wintry  growth  liome 
to  his  relations  and  friends. 

Upon  the  doctor's  door-steps  one  day,  Paul  stood  with 
a  fluttering  heart,  and  with  his  small  right  hand  in  his 
father's.  His  other  hand  was  locked  in  that  of  Florence. 
How  tight  the  tiny  pressure  of  that  one ;  and  how  loose 
and  cold  the  other! 

Mrs.  Pipchin  hovered  behind  the  victim,  with  her  sa- 
ble plumage  and  her  hooked  beak,  like  a  bird  of  ill-omen. 
She  was  out  of  breath  —  for  Mr.  Dombey,  full  of  great 
thoughts,  had  walked  fast  —  and  she  croaked  hoarsely  as 
shr  waited  for  the  opening  of  the  door. 

"Now,  Paul,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  exultingly.  "This  is 
the  way  indeed  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  and  have  money. 
You  are  almost  a  man  already." 

"  Almost,"  i-eturned  the  child. 

Even  his  childish  agitation  could  not  master  the  sly 
and  quaint  yet  touching  look,  with  which  he  accompanied 
the  reply. 

It  brought  a  vague  expression  of  dissatisfaction  into 
Mr.  Dombey's  face  ;  but  the  door  being  opened,  it  was 
quickly  gone. 

"  Doctor  Blimber  is  at  home,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Mr 
Dombey. 

The  man  said  yes ;  and  as  they  passed  in,  looketl  at 
Paul  as  if  he  were  a  little  mouse,  and  the  house  were  a 
trap.  He  was  a  weak-eyed  young  man,  with  the  first 
(jaint  streaks  or  early  dawn  of  a  grin  on  his  countenance, 
U  was  mere  imbecility  ;  but  ]\Irs.  Pipchin  took   it  into 


214  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

her  head  that  it  was  impudence,  and  made  a  snap  aX 
him  directly. 

"  How  dare  you  laugh  behind  the  gentleman's  back?* 
Mid  ]Mrs.  Pipchin.     "And  what  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"  I  a'n't  a-laughing  at  nobody,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't 
take  you  for  nolhing,  ma'am,"  returned  the  young  nnan, 
in  consternation. 

"  A  pack  of  idle  dogs  !  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  only  fit 
to  be  turnspits.  Go  and  tell  your  master  that  Mr.  Doni- 
bey's  here,  or  it'll  be  worse  for  you  !  " 

The  weak-eyed  young  man  went,  very  meekly,  to  dis- 
charge himself  of  this  commission  ;  and  soon  came  back 
to  invite  them  to  the  doctor's  study. 

"  You're  laughing  again,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  when 
it  came  to  her  turn,  bringing  up  the  rear,  to  pass  him  in 
the  hall. 

"  I  a'n't"  retiarned  the  young  man,  grievously  op- 
pressed.    "  I  never  see  such  a  thing  as  this ! " 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  looking  round.     "  Softly !     Pi'ay  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  deference,  merely  muttered  at  the 
young  man  as  she  passed  on,  and  said,  "  Oh  !  he  was  a 
precious  fellow  "  —  leaving  the  young  man,  who  was  all 
meekness  and  incapacity,  affected  even  to  tears  by  the 
incident.  But  Mi's.  Pipchin  had  a  way  of  falling  foul 
of  all  meek  people ;  and  her  friends  said  who  could 
wonder  at  it,  after  the  Peruvian   mines ! 

The  doctor  was  sitting  in  his  portentous  study,  with  a 
^lobe  at  each  knee,  books  all  round  him,  Homer  over  the 
door,  and  Minerva  on  the  mantel-shelf.  "And  hew  do 
you,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Dombey,  "  and  how  is  my  little 
friend  ?  "  Grave  as  an  organ  was  tlie  doctor's  speech  ; 
"^  nnd  ithen  he  ceased,  the  great  clock  in  the  hall  seemed 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  216 

(T\.  Paul  iit  least)  to  take  him  up,  and  to  go  on  saying, 
"how,  is,  my,  lit,  tic,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tlo,  friend," 
over  and  over  and  over  again. 

The  little  friend  being  something  too  small  to  be  seen 
at  ail  fiom  where  the  doctor  sat.  over  the  books  on  hia 
table,  the  doctor  made  several  futile  attempts  to  get  « 
view  of  him  round  the  legs  ;  which  Mr.  Dombey  per- 
ceiving, relieved  the  doctor  from  his  embarrassment  by 
taking  Paul  up  in  his  arms,  and  sitting  him  on  another 
little  table,  over  against  the  doctor,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"  Ha  1 "  said  the  doctor,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with 
his  hand  in  his  breast.  "  Now  I  see  my  little  friend. 
How  do  you  do,  ray  little  friend  ?  " 

The  clock  in  the  hall  wouldn't  subscribe  to  tliis  al- 
teration in  the  form  of  words,  but  continued  to  repeat 
"  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend ! " 

"  Very  well,  I  thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Paul,  answer- 
ing tlie  clock  quite  as  much  as  the  doctor. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Dr.  Blimber.  "  Shall  we  make  a  man 
of  him  ?  " 

"  Do  you  hear,  Paul .'' "  added  Mr.  Dombey  ;  Paul 
being  silent. 

"  Shall  we  make  a  man  of  him  ? "  repeated  the 
doctor. 

"  I  had  rather  be  a  child,"  replied  Paul. 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  doctor.     "  Why  ?  " 

The  child  sat  on  the  table  looking  at  him,  with  a 
c.  rious  expression  of  suppressed  emotion  in  his  faie, 
and  beating  one  hand  proudly  on  his  knee  as  if  he  had 
the  rising  tears  beneath  it,  and  crushed  them.  But  hia 
other  hand  strayed  a  little  way  the  while,  a  little  farthei 
■— farthei  frcm  him  yet — until  it  lighted  on  the  neck 


016  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  Floi-ence.  "  Tliis  is  why,"  it  seemed  to  say,  and 
then  the  steady  look  was  broken  up  and  gone ;  the 
working  lip  was  loosened  ;  and  the  tears  came  streaming 
forth. 

"  ATrs.  Pipchin,"  said  his  father,  in  a  querulous  man* 
Off,  "  I  am  really  very  sorry  to  see  this." 

"  Come  away  from  him,  do,  Miss  Dombey,"  quoth  the 
matron. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  doctor,  blandly  nodding  his 
bead,  to  keep  Mrs.  Pipchin  back.  "  Ne-ver  mind  ;  we 
shall  substitute  new  cares  and  new  impressions,  Mr. 
Dombey,  very  shortly.  You  would  still  wish  my  little 
friend  to  acquire  "  — 

"  Everything,  if  you  please,  doctor,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey  firmly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  who,  with  his  half-shut  eyes, 
and  his  usual  smile,  seemed  to  survey  Paul  with  the 
sort  of  interest  that  might  attach  to  some  choice  little 
animal  he  was  going  to  stuff.  "Yes,  exactly.  Ha! 
We  shall  impart  a  great  variety  of  information  to  our 
liitle  friend,  and  bring  him  quickly  forward,  I  dare  say. 
I  dare  say.  Quite  a  virgin  soil,  I  believe  you  said,  Mr. 
Dombey  ?  " 

"  Except  some  ordinary  preparation  at  home,  and  from 
this  lady,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey,  introducing  Mrs.  Pip- 
bin,  who  instantly  communicated  a  rigidity  to  her  whole 
aiuscular  system,  and  snorted  defiance  beforehand,  in  case 
:he,  doctor  should  disparage  her ;  "  except  so  far,  Paul 
has,  as  yet,  applied  himself  to  no  studies  at  all." 

Doctor  Blimber  inclined  his  head,  in  gentle  tolerance 
of  such  insignificant  poaching  as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  and 
said  he  was  glad  to  hear  it.  It  was  much  more  satisfac- 
tory, he  observed,  rubbing  his  hands,  to  begin  at  the  foun 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON.  2& 

dation.  And  again  he  leered  at  Paul,  as  if  he  would 
have  liked  to  tackle  him  with  the  Greek  alphabet  on 
the  spot. 

"  That  circumstance,  indeed,  Doctor  Bllmber,"  pursued 
Mr.  Dombey,  glancing  at  his  little  son,  "  and  the  inter- 
view I  have  already  had  the  pleasure  of  holding  with 
you,  renders  any  further  explanation,  and  consequently, 
any  further  intrusion  on  your  valuable  time,  so  unnecea- 
Bary,  that "  — 

"  Now,  Miss  Dombey  !  "  said  the  acid  Pipchin. 
"Permit,  me,"  said  the  doctor,  "one  moment.  Allow 
me  to  present  Mrs.  Bllmber  and  my  daughter,  who  will 
be  associated  with  the  domestic  hfe  of  our  young  Pilgrim 
to  Parnassus.  Mrs.  Blimber,"  for  the  lady,  who  had 
perhaps  been  in  waiting,  opportunely  entered,  followed 
by  her  daughter,  tliat  fair  sexton  in  spectacles,  "Mr. 
Dombey.  My  daughter  Cornelia,  IVlr.  Dombey.  Mr. 
Dombey,  ray  love,"  pursued  the  doctor,  turning  to  his 
wife,  "is  so  conGding  as  to  —  do  you  see  our  little 
friend  ?  " 

Mrs.  Blimber,  in  an  excess  of  politeness,  of  which 
Mr,  Dombey  was  the  object,  apparently  did  not,  for  she 
was  backing  against  the  little  friend,  and  very  much  en- 
dangering his  position  on  the  table.  But,  on  this  hint, 
she  turned  to  admire  his  classical  and  intellectual  linea- 
ments, and  turning  again  to  Mr.  Dombey,  said,  with  a 
sigh,  that  she  envied  his  dear  son. 

'•  Like  a  bee,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  uplifted 
eyes,  "about  to  plunge  into  a  garden  of  the  choicest 
flowers,  and  sip  the  sweets  for  the  first  time.  Virgil, 
Horace,  Ovid,  Terence,  Plautus,  Cicero.  What  a  world 
of  honey  have  we  here.  It  may  appear  remarkable. 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  one  who  is  a  wife  —  the  wife  of  such  ft 
husband  "  — 


'({18  DOMBEY  AND  SON.   , 

"  Hush,  hush,"  said  Doctor  BHmber.  « Fie  fbr 
shame." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  will  forgive  the  partiality  of  a  wife." 
said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  an  engaging  smile. 

Mr.  Dombey  answered  "Not  at  all:"  applying  those 
wcrds,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  to  the  partiality,  and  not  to 
the  forgiveness. 

—  "  And  it  may  seem  remarkable  in  one  who  is  a 
mother  also,"  resumed  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"  And  such  a  mother,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  bowing 
with  some  confused  idea  of  being  complimentary  to  Cor- 
nelia. 

"  But  really,"  pursued  Mrs.  Blimber,  "  I  think  if  I 
could  have  known  Cicero,  and  been  his  friend,  and 
talked  with  him  in  his  retiremeRt  at  Tusculum  (beau-ti- 
ful  Tusculum  !)  I  could  have  died  contented." 

A  learned  enthusiasm  is  .so  very  contagious,  that  Mr. 
Dombey  half  believed  this  was  exactly  his  case ;  and 
even  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who  was  not,  as  we  have  seen,  of  an 
accommodating  disposition  generally,  gave  uttoi-ance  to 
a  little  sound  between  a  groan  and  a  sigh,  as  if  she 
would  have  said  that  nobody  but  Cicero  could  have 
proved  a  lasting  consolation  under  that  failure  of  the 
Peruvian  Mines,  but  that  he  indeed  would  have  been  a 
very  Davy-lamp  of  refuge. 

Cornelia  looked  at  Mr.  Dombey  thi-ough  her  spoo 
tacles,  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  crack  a  few  quota* 
tions  with  him  from  the  authority  in  question.  But  this 
design,  if  she  entertained  it,  was  frustrated  by  a  knock 
-It  I  he  room-door. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  Oh  !  Come  in, 
Toots ;  come  in.  Mr.  Dombey,  sir."  To'jts  b*)wed. 
"Quite  a  coincidence!"  said  Doctor  BHmbei-.     **  Here 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  21 » 

ve  have  Ihe  beginning  and  the  end.     Alpha  and  Omega. 
Our  head  boy,  Mr.  Dorabey." 

The  doctor  might  have  called  him  their  head  and 
shoulders  boy,  for  he  was  at  least  that  much  taller  than 
any  of  the  rest.  He  blushed  very  much  at  finding  him 
Bclf  among  strangers,  and  chuckled  aloud. 

"  An  addition  to  our  little  Portico,  Toots,"  said  the 
doctor ;  "  Mr.  Dombey's  son." 

Young  Toots  blushed  again ;  and  finding,  from  a 
solemn  silence  which  prevailed,  that  he  Avas  expected 
to  say  sometliing,  said  to  Paul,  "  How  are  you  ?  "  in  a 
voice  so  deep,  and  a  manner  so  sheepish,  that  if  a  lamb 
had  roared  it  couldn't  have  been  more  surprising. 

"•  Ask  Mr.  Feeder,  if  you  please.  Toots,**  said  the 
doctor,  "  to  prepare  a  few  introductoiy  volumes  for  Mr. 
Dombey's  son,  and  to  allot  him  a  convenient  seat  for 
study.  My  dear,  I  believe  Mr.  Dombey  has  not  seen 
the  dormitories." 

"  If  Mr.  Dombey  will  Avalk  np-stairs,"  said  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber,  "  I  shall  be  more  than  proud  to  show  him  the  do- 
minions of  tlie  drowsy  god." 

With  that,  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  was  a  lady  of  great 
guavity,  and  a  wiry  figure,  and  who  wore  a  cap  com- 
posed of  sky-blue  materials,  proceeded  up-stairs  with 
Mr.  Dombey  and  Cornelia ;  Mrs.  Pipchin  following,  and 
looking  out  sharp  for  her  enemy  the  footman. 

While  they  were  gone,  Paul  sat  upon  the  table  hold- 
ing Florence  by  the  hand,  and  glancing  timidly  from  the 
doctor  round  and  round  the  room,  while  the  doctor,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hand  in  his  breast  as 
usual,  held  a  book  from  him  at  arm's  length,  and  read. 
There  was  something  very  awful  in  this  manner  of  read- 
ing.  It  was  such  a  determined,  unimpassioned,  inflexible. 


220  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

cold-blooded  way  of  going  to  work.  It  loflt  tlic  doctor's 
countenance  exposed  to  view ;  and  when  the  doctor 
smiled  auspiciously  at  his  author,  or  knit  his  brows,  of 
fibook  his  head  and  made  wry  faces  at  him  as  much  aa 
to  say,  "  Don't  tell  me,  sir.  I  know  better,"  it  was  ter- 
rilic 

Toots,  too,  had  no  business  to  be  outside  the  door, 
ostentatiously  examining  the  wheels  in  his  watch,  and 
counting  his  haif-ci-owns.  But  that  didn't  last  long  ;  for 
Doctor  Blimber,  happening  to  change  the  position  of 
hia  tight  plump  legs,  as  if  he  were  going  to  get  up, 
Toots  swiftly  vanished,  and  appeared  no  more. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  his  conductress  were  soon  heard 
coming  down-stairs  again,  talking  all  the  way  ;  and  pres- 
ently they  reentered  the  doctor's  study. 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  doctor,  laying  down 
his  book,  "  that  the  arrangements  meet  your  approval." 

"  They  are  excellent,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Very  fair,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  a  low  voice; 
never  disposed  to  give  too  much  encouragement. 

"Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  wheeling  round, 
**  will,  with  your  permission.  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber, 
visit  Paul  now  and  then." 

"Whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  pleases,"  observed  the 
doctor. 

"  Always  happy  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"  1  think,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  have  given  all  the 
Itouble  I  need,  and  may  take  my  leave.  Paul,  my 
thild,"  he  went  close  to  him,  as  he  sat  upon  the  tabK; 
'  Good-by."  ^ 

"  Good-by,  papa." 

The  limp  and  careless  little  hand  that  Mr.  Dombey 
took  in  his,  was  singularly  out  of  keeping  with  the  wist- 


DOMBET  Am)  SON.  ftl 

liil  face.  But  he  had  no  part  in  its  sorrowful  expression. 
It  was  not  addressed  to  him.  No,  no,  to  Florence  — 
all  to  Florence. 

If  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  insolence  of  wealth,  had  ever 
made  an  enemy,  hard  to  appease  and  cruelly  vindictive 
in  his  hate,  even  such  an  enemy  might  have  received 
the  pang  that  wrung  his  proud  heart  then,  as  compcnga- 
ticn  for  his  injury. 

He  bent  down  over  his  boy,  and  kissed  him.  If  his 
sight  were  dimmed  as  he  did  so,  by  something  that  for  a 
moment  blurred  the  little  face,  and  made  it  indistinct  to 
him,  his  mental  vision  may  have  been,  for  that  short 
time,  the  clearer  perhaps. 

"  I  shall  see  you  soon,  Paul.  You  are  free  on  Satur- 
days and  Sundays,  you  know." 

•'  Yes,  papa,"  returned  Paul :  looking  at  his  sister. 
**0n  Saturdays  and  Sundays." 

"  And  youll  trj-  and  learn  a  great  deal  here,  and  be 
a  clever  man,'    said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  won't  you  ? " 

"I'll  try,"  returned  the  child  wearily. 

"  And  you'll  soon  be  gi'own  up  now  !  "  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

"  Oh  !  very  soon  !  "  replied  the  child.  Once  more 
the  old,  old  look,  passed  rapidly  across  his  features,  like 
a  strange  light.  It  fell  on  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  extin- 
guished itself  in  her  black  dress.  That  excellent  ogress 
stepped  forward  to  take  leave  and  to  bear  off  Florence, 
which  she  had  long  been  thirsting  to  do.  Tlie  move  on 
her  part  roused  Mr.  Dombey,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Paul.  After  patting  him  on  the  head,  and  pressing  his 
small  hand  again,  he  took  leave  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs. 
Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  with  his  usual  polite  frigid- 
ity, and  walked  out  of  the  study. 


222  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Despite  his  entreaty  that  they  would  not  think  of  stir^ 
ring.  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber 
all  pressed  forward  to  attend  him  to  the  liall ;  and  thus 
Mrs.  Pipcliin  got  into  a  state  of  entanglement  with  Misa 
Blimber  and  the  doctor,  and  was  ciowded  out  of  the 
study  before  she  could  clutch  Florence.  To  wliieh 
happy  accident  Paul  stood  afterwards  indebted  for  the 
dear  remembrance,  that  Florence  ran  back  tc  tl:row  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  that  hers  was  the  last  face  in 
the  door-way :  turned  towards  him  with  a  smile  of  en- 
couragement, the  brighter  for  the  tears  through  which  it 
beamed. 

It  made  his  childish  bosom  heave  and  swell  when  it 
was  gone ;  and  sent  the  globes,  the  books,  blind  Homer 
and  Minerva,  ss'imming  round  the  room.  But  they 
stopped,  all  of  a  sudden  ;  and  then  he  heard  the  loud 
clock  in  the  hall  still  gravely  inquiring  "  how,  is,  my,  lit, 
tie,  friend,  how,  is,  my,  Jit,  tie,  friend,"  as  it  had  done 
before. 

He  sat,  with  folded  hands  upon  his  pedestal,  silently 
listening.  But  he  might  have  answered  "  weary,  weary ' 
very  lonely,  very  sad  ! "  And  tliere,  with  an  aching  void 
in  his  young  heart,  and  all  outside  so  cold,  and  bare,  and 
Btrange,  Paul  sat  as  if  he  had  taken  life  unfurnished  and 
the  upholsterer  were  never  oominfi;. 


i*UAlJli!.V    AND    J>U>.  2*J 


CHAPTER  XII. 


PAUL  8    KDUCATIOX. 


After  llie  lapse  of  some  minutes,  which  appeared  au 
immense  time  to  little  Paul  Dombeyon  the  table,  Dctlor 
Blimber  came  back.  The  doctor's  walk  was  stately,  :uid 
calculated  to  impress  the  juvenile  mind  with  solemi;  teel- 
ing>.  It  was  a  sort  of  march  ;  but  when  the  doctor  put 
out  his  right  foot,  he  gravely  turned  upon  his  axis,  with 
a  sitnicircnlar  sweep  towards  the  left;  and  when  lie  put 
out  iiis  left  foot,  he  turned  in  the  same  manner  towanl.s 
the  right.  So  that  he  seemed,  at  every  stride  he  took,  to 
look  about  him  as  though  he  were  saying,  "  Can  anybody 
have  the  goodness  to  indicate  any  subject,  in  any  direc- 
tion, on  which  I  am  uninformed  ?     I  rather  think  not." 

Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber  came  back  in  tbe 
doctor's  company  ;  and  the  doctor,  lifting  his  new  pupil 
off  the  table,  delivered  him  over  to  Miss  Blimber. 

"  Cornelia,"  said  the  doctor,  "  Dombey  will  be  your 
charge  at  first.     Bring  him  on,  Cornelia,  bring  him  on." 

Miss  Blimber  received  her  young  ward  from  the  doo- 
lor's  hands  ;  and  Paul,  feeling  that  the  spectacles  were 
surveying  him,  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Dombey  ?  "  said  Miss  Blimber. 

*'  Six,"  answered  Paul,  wondering,  as  he  stole  a  glance 
ai  the  young  lady,  why  her  hair  didn't  grow  long  like 
Florence's,  and  why  she  was  like  a  boy. 


224  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  How  much  do  you  know  of  your  Latin  Grammar, 
Dorabey  ?  "  said  Miss  Blimber. 

"  None  of  it,"  answered  Paul.  Feeling  that  the  an- 
iwer  was  a  shock  to  Miss  Blimber's  sensibility,  he 
looked  up  at  the  three  faces  that  were  looking  down 
at  him,  and  said  :  — 

*'  I  haven't  been  well.  I  have  been  a  weak  child.  I 
couldn't  learn  a  Latin  Grammar  when  I  was  out,  every 
day,  with  old  Glubb.  I  wish  you'd  tell  old  Glubb  to 
oome  and  see  me,  if  you  please." 

"  What  a  dreadfully  low  name  !  "  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 
•*  Unclassical  to  a  degree  !     Who  is  the  monster,  child  ?  * 

"  What  monster  ?  "  inquired  Paul. 

"  Glubb,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  a  great  disrelish. 

"  He's  no  more  a  monster  than  you  are,"  returned 
Paul. 

"  What !  "  cried  the  doctor,  in  a  terrible  voice.  "  Ay, 
ay,  ay?     Ah!     What's  that?" 

Paul  was  dreadfully  frightened ;  but  still  he  made  a 
stand  for  the  absent  Glubb,  though  he  did  it  trembling. 

"  He's  a  very  nice  old  man,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  Ho 
used  to  draw  my  couch.  He  knows  all  about  the  deep 
sea,  and  the  fish  that  are  in  it,  and  the  great  monsters 
that  come  and  lie  on  rocks  in  the  sun,  and  dive  into  '.he 
water  again  when  they're  startled,  blowing  and  splashing 
90,  that  they  can  be  heard  for  miles.  There  are  some 
creatures,"  said  Paul,  warming  with  his  subject,  "1  don't 
Know  how  many  yards  long,  and  I  forget  their  names, 
but  Florence  knows,  that  pretend  to  be  in  distress ;  and 
when  a  man  goes  near  them,  out  of  compassion,  they 
open  their  great  jaws,  and  attack  him.  But  all  he  has 
got  to  do,"  said  Paul,  boldly  tendering  this  information 
to  the  very  doctor  himself,  "  is  to  keep  on  turning  as  he 


DOM  BEY   AND   SON.  225 

rans  away,  and  then,  as  they  turn  slowly,  because  iliey 
are  so  long,  and  can't  bend,  he's  sure  to  beat  them.  And 
though  old-Ghibb  don't  know  why  the  sea  should  make 
me  think  of  my  mama  that's  dead,  or  what  it  is  that  it  is 
t'.hvays  saying  —  always  saying  !  he  knows  a  great  deal 
hborit  it.  And  1  wish,"  the  child  concluded,  with  a  sud- 
den falling  of  his  countenance,  and  failing  in  his  anima- 
tion, as  he  looked  like  one  forlorn,  upon  the  three  strange 
faces,  "  that  you'd  let  old  Glubb  come  here  to  see  me^ 
for  I  know  him  very  well,  and  he  knows  me." 

"  Ha  1 "  said  the  doctor,  shaking  his  head ;  "  this  ia 
bad,  but  study  will  do  much." 

Mrs.  Blimber  opined,  with  something  like  a  shiver, 
that  he  was  an  unaccountjihle  child ;  and,  allowing  for 
the  difference  of  visage,  looked  at  him  pretty  much  as 
Mrs.   Pipehin  had  been  used  to  do. 

"  Take  him  round  the  house,  Cornelia,"  said  the 
doctor,  "  and  familiarize  him  with  his  new  sphere.  GrO 
with  that  young  lady,  Dombey." 

Dombey  obeyed ;  giving  his  hand  to  the  abstrus** 
C!ornelia.  and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  timid  curi- 
osity, as  they  went  away  together.  P^r  her  spectacles, 
by  reason  of  the  glistening  of  the  glasses,  made  her  so 
mysterious,  that  he  didn't  know  where  she  was  looking, 
and  was  not  indeed  quite  sure  that  she  had  any  eyes  at 
all  behind  them. 

Cornelia  took  him  first  to  the  school-room,  which  was 
ituated  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and  was  approached 
through  two  baize  doors,  which  deadened  and  niuflied 
the  young  gentlemen's  voices.  Here,  there  were  eight 
Toung  gentlemen  in  various  stages  of  mental  prostration, 
ill  very  hard  at  work,  and  very  grave  indeed.  Tcots, 
as  an  old  hand,  had  a  desk  to  himself  in  one  coraer :  and 
vol    I.  15 


226  DOMBEY   AND  SON- 

R  magnificent  man,  of  immense  age,  he  looked,  in  Paul's 
young  eyes,  behind  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  who  sat  at  another  little  desk,  Imd 
his  Virgil  stop  on,  and  was  slowly  grinding  that  tune  to 
four  young  gentlemen.  Of  the  remaining  four,  two,  who 
grasped  their  foreheads  convulsively,  werti  engaged  in 
s< living  mathematical  problems ;  one  with  his  face  like 
a  dirty  window,  from  much  crying,  was  endeavoring  to 
flounder  through  a  hopeless  number  of  lines  before  din- 
ner ;  and  one  sat  looking  at  his  task  in  stony  stupefaction 
and  despair  —  which  it  seemed  had  been  his  condition 
ever  since  breakfast  time. 

Tlie  appearance  of  a  new  boy  did  not  create  the  sen- 
sation that  might  have  been  expected.  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A. 
(who  was  in  the  habit  of  shaving  his  head  for  coolness, 
and  had  notiiing  but  little  bristles  on  it),  gave  him  a 
bony  hand,  and  told  him  he  was  glad  to  see  him  —  which 
Paul  would  have  been  very  glad  to  have  told  /u'/w,  if  lie 
could  have  done  so  with  the  least  sincerity.  Then  Paul, 
instructed  by  Cornelia,  shook  hands  with  the  four  young 
gentlemen  at  Mr.  Feeder's  desk ;  then  with  the  two 
young  gentlemen  at  work  on  the  problems,  who  were 
very  feverish :  then  with  the  young  gentleman  at  work 
against  time,  who  was  very  inky ;  and  lastly  with  the 
young  gentleman  in  a  state  of  stupefaction,  who  wa? 
flabby  and  quite  cold. 

Paul  having  been  already  intix)duced  to  Toots,  that 
^kupil  merely  chuckled  and  breathed  hard,  as  his  custom 
*'as,  and  pursued  the  occupation  in  which  he  was  en- 
£»aged.  It  was  not  a  severe  one  ;  for  on  account  of  his 
having  "  gone  through  "  so  much  (in  more  senses  than 
one),  and  also  of  his  having,  as  before  hinted,  left  off 
blowing  in  his  prime,  Toots  now  had  license  to  pursue 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  227 

nis  own  couise  of  study ;  which  was  chiefly  to  write  long 
letters  to  himself  from  persons  of  distinction,  addressed 
"  P.  Toots.  Enquire,  Brighton,  Sussex,"  and  to  preserve 
them  in   his  desk  with  great  care. 

These  ceremonies  passed,  Cornelia  led  Paul  up-stairs 
to  the  top  of  the  house  ;  which  was  rather  a  slow  jour- 
ney, on  account  of  Paul  being  obliged  to  land  both  feet 
on  every  stair,  before  he  mounted  another.  But  they 
reached  their  journey's  end  at  last ;  and  there,  in  a 
dxmt  room,  looking  over  the  wild  sea,  Cornelia  showed 
him  a  nice  little  bed  with  white  hangings,  close  to  tlie 
window,  on  which  there  was  already  beautifully  written 
on  a  card  in  round  text  —  down  strokes  veI■3^  thick,  and 
up  strokes  very  fine — Dombey  ;  while  two  other  little 
bedsteads  in  the  same  room  were  announced,  through 
Hke  means,  as  respectively  appertaining  unto  Briggs 
and  TozER. 

Just  as  they  got  down-stairs  again  into  the  hall,  Paul 
saw  the  weak-eyed  young  man  who  had  given  that  mor- 
tal offence  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  suddenly  seize  a  very  large 
drumstick,  and  fly  at  a  gong  that  was  hanging  up,  as 
if  he  had  gone  mad,  or  wanted  vengeance.  Instead  of 
receiving  warning,  however,  or  being  instantly  taken  into 
custody,  the  young  man  left  off  unchecked,  after  having 
raude  a  tlreadful  noise.  Then  Cornelia  Blimber  said 
to  Dombey  that  dinner  would  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  perhaps  he  had  better  go  into  the  school- 
room among  his  "  friends." 

So  Dombey,  diferentially  passing  the  great  clock 
which  was  still  as  anxious  as  ever  to  know  how  he 
found  himself,  opened  the  school-room  door  a  very  little 
way,  and  strayed  in  like  a  lost  boy  :  shutting  it  after 
Vim  with  some  difficulty.     His  friends  were  all  dispc^rsed 


228  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

about  the  room  except  the  stony  friend,  who  remained 
immovable.  Mr.  Feeder  was  stretching  himself  in  his 
gray  gown,  !is  if,  regardless  of  expense,  he  were  resolved 
to  pull  the  sleeves  off. 

"  Heigh  ho  hum  !  "  cried  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  him 
self  like  a  cart-horse,  "  Oh  dear  me,  dear  me  !  Ya-a-a- 
ah!" 

Paul  was  quite  alarmed  by  Mr.  Feeder's  yawning  ^ 
it  was  done  on  such  a  great  scale,  and  he  was  so  ter- 
ribly in  earnest.  All  the  boys  too  (Toots  excepted) 
seemed  knocked  up,  and  were  getting  ready  for  dinner 
—  some  newly  tying  their  neck-cloths,  which  were  very 
stiff  indeed ;  and  others  washing  their  hands  or  brush- 
ing their  hair,  in  an  adjoining  ante-chamber  —  as  if 
they  didn't  think  they  should  enjoy  it  at  all. 

Young  Toots  who  was  ready  beforehand,  and  had 
therefore  nothing  to  do,  and  had  leisure  to  bestow  upon 
Paul,  said,  with  heavy  good  nature : 

"  Sit  down,  Dorabey." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul. 

His  endeavoring  to  hoist  himself  on  to  a  very  high 
window-seat,   and    his    slipping    down    again,   appeared 
to  prepare  Toots's    mind   for    the    reception   of  a  dis- 
covery. 
,   **  You're  a  very  small  chap,"  said  Mr.  Toote. 

'•  Yes,  sir,  I'm  small,"  returned  Paul.  "  Thank  you, 
sir." 

For  Toots  had  lifted  him  into  the  seat,  and  done  il 
kindly  too. 

"  Who's  your  tailor  ? "  inquired  Toots,  after  looking 
at  him  for  some  moments. 

"  It's  a  woman  that  has  made  my  clothes  as  yet,"  said 
Paul.     "My  sister's  dress-maktr." 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  229 

«  My  tailor's  Burgess  and  Co.,"  said  Toots.  *  Fash'- 
nnble.     But  very  dear." 

Paul  had  wit  enough  to  shake  his  head,  as  if  he 
would  have  said  it  was  easy  to  see  that ;  and  indeed  he 
ihouglit  so. 

"  Your  father's  regularly  rich,  a'n't  he  ?  "  inquired  M", 
J'oots. 

*'  Yes,  sir,"  said  Paul.     "  He's  Dombey  and  Son." 

"And  which?"  demanded  Toots. 

"And  Son,  sir,"  replied  Paul. 

Mr.  Toots  made  one  or  two  attempts,  in  a  low  voice, 
to  fix  the  firm  in  his  mind ;  but  not  quite  succeeding, 
said  he  would  get  Paul  to  mention  the  name  again 
to-morrow  morning,  as  it  was  rather  important.  And 
indeed  he  purposed  nothing  less  than  writing  himself 
a  private  and  confidential  letter  from  Dombey  «»nd  Sou 
immediately. 

By  this  time  the  other  pupils  (always  excepting  the 
stony  boy)  gathered  round.  They  were  polite,  but  pale ; 
and  spoke  low  ;  and  they  were  so  depressed  in  their 
spirits,  that  in  comparison  with  the  general  tone  of  that 
company.  Master  Bitherstone  was  a  perfect  Miller,  or 
complete  Jest  Book.  And  yet  he  had  a  sense  of  in- 
jury upon  him  too,  had  Bitherstone. 

"  You  sleep  in  my  room,  don't  you  ?  "  asked  a  solemn 
young  gentleman,  whose  shirt-collar  curled  up  the  lobes 
of  his  ears. 

"  INIaster  Briggs  ?  "  inquired  Paul. 

"  Tozer,"  said  the  young  gentleman. 

Paul  answered  yes  ;  and  Tozer  pointing  out  the  stony 
pupil,  said  that  was  Briggs.  Paul  had  already  felt  cer- 
tain tliat  it  must  be  either  Briggs  or  Tozer,  though  be 
Aidn't  know  wliy. 


230  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Is  yours  a  strong  constitution  ? "  inquired  Tozer. 

Paul  said  he  thought  not.  Tozer  replied  that  he 
thought  not  also,  judging  from  Paul's  looks,  and  that  il 
wa3  a  pity,  for  it  need  be.  He  then  asked  Paul  if  he 
were  going  to  begin  with  Cornelia ;  and  on  Paul's  say- 
ing'"•yes,"  all  the  young  gentlemen  (Briggs  excepted) 
gave  a  low  groan. 

It  was  drowned  in  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  gong, 
which  sounding  again  with  great  fury,  there  was  a 
general  move  towards  the  dining-room  ;  still  excepting 
Briggs  the  stony  boy,  who  remained  where  he  was,  and 
as  he  was  ;  and  on  its  way  to  whom  Paul  presently 
encountered  a  round *of  bread,  genteelly  served  on  a 
plate  and  napkin,  and  with  a  silver  fork  lying  cross- 
wise on  the  top  of  it.  Doctor  Bliraber  was  already  in 
his  place  in  the  dining-rootn,  at  the  top  of  the  table, 
with  Miss  Bliniber  and  Mrs.  Blimbcr  on  either  side  of 
him.  Mr.  Feeder  in  a  black  coat  was  at  the  bottom. 
Paul's  chair  was  next  to  JMiss  Blimber ;  but  it  being 
found,  when  he  sat  in  it,  that  his  eyebrows  were  not 
much  above  the  level  of  the  table-cloth,  some  books  were 
brought  in  from  the  doctor's  study,  on  which  he  was 
elevated,  and  on  which  he  always  sat  from  that  time  — 
carrying  them  in  and  out  himself  on  after  occasions,  like 
a  little  elephant  and  castle. 

Grace  having  been  said  by  the  doctor,  dinner  began. 
Inhere  was  some  nice  soup ;  also  roast  meat,  boiled  meat, 
vegetables,  pie,  and  cheese.  Every  young  gentleman 
had  a  massive  silver  fork,  and  a  napkin  ;  and  all  the 
Rrrangements  were  stately  and  handsome.  In  particu- 
AT,  there  was  a  butler  in  a  blue  coat  and  bright  but- 
tons, who  gave  quite  a  winey  flavor  to  the  table  beer; 
be  poured  it  out  so  superbly. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  231 

Noboil}'  spoke,  unless  spoken  to,  except  Doctor  IJlini. 
ber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Bliinber,  who  conversed 
ncctisionally.  Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  not 
actually  engaged  with  his  knife  and  fork  or  spoon,  his 
eye,  with  an  irresistible  attraction,  sought  the  eye  of 
Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  or  Miss  Blimber,  and 
modestly  rested  there.  Toots  appeared  to  be  the  only 
exception  to  this  'rule.  He  sat  next  Mr.  Feeder  on 
I'aul's  side  of  the  table,  and  frequently  looked  behind 
and  before  the  intervening  boys  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
Paul. 

Only  once  during  dinner  was  there  any  conversation 
that  included  the  young  gentlemen.  It  happened  at 
the  epoch  of  the  cheese,  when  the  doctor,  having  taken 
a  glass  of  port  wine,  and  hemmed  twice  or  thrice, 
said : 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,  that  the  Romans  "  — 

At  the  mention  of  this  terrible  people,  their  implac- 
able enemies,  every  young  gentleman  fastened  his  gaze 
upon  the  doctor,  with  an  assumption  of  the  deepest  in- 
terest. One  of  the  number  who  happened  to  be  drink- 
ing, and  who  caught  the  doctor's  eye  glaring  at  him 
through  the  side  of  his  tumbler,  left  off  so  hastily  that 
he  was  convulsed  for  some  moments,  and  in  the  sequel 
ruined  Doctor   Blimber's   point. 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,"  said  the  do<jtor, 
beginning  again  slowly,  "  that  the  Romans,  in  those 
gorgeous  and  profuse  entertainments  of  which  we  read 
in  the  days  of  the  Emperors,  when  luxury  had  attained 
a  height  unknown  before  or  since,  and  when  whole  prov- 
inces were  ravaged  to  supply  the  splendid  means  of 
one  imperial  banquet"  — 

Here  the  offender,  who  had  been  swelling  and  strain- 


232  DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

ing,  and    waiting    in    vain   for   a  full  stop,  broke  out 
violently 

"  Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  in  a  low  reproachful 
voice.  "  take  some  water." 

The  doctor,  looking  very  stern,  made  a  pause  until 
the  water  was  brought,  and  then  resumed : 

"And  when,  Mr.  Feeder"  — 

Itut  Mr.  Feeder,  who  saw  that-  Johnson  must  ])reak 
out  again,  and  who  knew  that  the  doctor  would  never 
come  to  a  period  before  the  young  gentlemen  until  he 
had  finished  all  he  meant  to  say,  couldn't  keep  his  eye 
olf  Johnson  ;  and  thus  was  caught  in  the  fact  of  not 
looking  at  the  doctor,  who  consequently  stopped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  redden- 
ing.    "  I  beg  your  pardon.  Doctor  Blimber." 

"  And  when,"  said  the  doctor,  raisiog  his  voice, 
"*  when,  sir,  as  we  read,  and  have  no  reason  to  doubt 
—  incredible  as  it  may  appear  to  the  vulgar  of  our 
time  —  the  brother  of  Vitellius  prepared  for  hira  a  feast, 
in  which  were  served,  of  fish,  two  thousand  dishes  " — 

"  Take  some  water,  Johnson  —  dishes,  sir,"  said  Mr 
Feoiler. 

"Of  various  sorts  of  fowl,  five  thousand  dishes." 

"  Or  try  a  crust  of  bread,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

**-And  one  dish,"  pursued  Doctor  Blimber,  raising  his 
voice  still  higlier  as  he  looked  all  round  the  table^ 
"  called,  from  its  enormous  dimensions,  the  Shield  of 
Minerva,  and  made,  among  other  costly  ingredients,  of 
the  brains  of  pheasants "  — 

''  Ow,  ow,  ow !  "  (from  Johnson.) 

"  Woodcocks," 

"  Ow,  ow,  ow  !  " 

•♦  The  sounds  of  the  fish  called  scan," 


DOMBEY  AM)  SON.  283 

•*  You'll  burst  some  vessel  in  your  head,"  said  Mf 
Feeder.     "  You  had  better  let  it  come." 

"  And  the  spawn  of  the  lamprey,  brought  from  the 
Carpathian  Sea,"  pursued  the  doctor  in  his  severest 
voice ;  "  when  we  read  of  costly  enteitainments  such  as 
these,  and  still  remember,  that  we  have  a  Titus," 

**  What  would  be  your  mother's  feelings  if  you  die<l 
of  apoplexy  !  "  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  A  Domitian," 

"  And  you're  blue,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  A  Nero,  a  Tiberius,  a  Caligula,  a  Heliogabalus,  and 
many  more,"  pursued  the  doctor  ;  "  it  is,  Mr.  Feeder  — 
if  you  are  doing  me  the  honor  to  attend  —  remarkable  ; 
VERT  remarkable,  sir  "  — 

But  Johnson,  unable  to  suppress  it  any  longer,  burst 
at  that  moment  into  such  an  overwhelming  fit  of 
coughing,  that,  although  both  his  immediate  neighbors 
thumped  him  on  the  back,  and  Mr.  Feeder  himself 
held  a  glass  of  water  to  his  lips,  and  the  butler  walked 
lim  up  and  down  several  times  between  his  own  chair 
and  the  sideboard,  like  a  sentry,  it  was  full  five  minutes 
before  he  was  moderately  composed,  and  then  there  was 
a  profound  silence. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Doctor  BHmber,  "  rise  for  Grace  1 
Cornelia,  lift  Dombey  down  "  —  nothing  of  whom  but 
his  scalp  was  accordingly  seen  above  the  table-cloth. 
"  Johnson  will  repeat  to  me  to-morrow  morning  before 
breakfast,  without  book,  and  from  the  Greek  Testament, 
the  first  chapter  of  the  Epistle  of  Saint  Paul  to  the 
Ephesians.  We  will  resume  our  studies,  Mr.  Feeder, 
m  half  an  hour." 

The  young  gentlemen  bowed  and  witiidrew.  Mr. 
Feeder  did  likewise.     During  the  half-hour,  the  younp 


234  POMBEY  AND  SON. 

gentlemen,  broken  into  pairs,  loitered  ai  n-in-ann  up 
and  down  a  small  piece  of  ground  behind  the  house* 
or  endeavored  to  kindle  a  spark  of  animation  in  the 
breast  of  Briggs.  But  nothing  happened  so  vulgar  us 
play.  Punctually  at  the  appointed  time,  the  gong  was 
Bounded,  and  the  studies,  under  the  joint  auspices  of 
Doctor  Bliniber  and  Mr.  Feeder  were  resumed. 

As  the  Olympic  game  of  lounging  up  and  down  had 
been  cut  shorter  than  usual  that  day,  on  Johnson's  ac- 
count, they  all  went  out  for  a  walk  before  tea.  Even 
Briggs  (though  he  hadn't  begun  yet)  partook  of  this 
dissipation ;  in  the  enjoyment  of  which  he  looked  over 
the  cliff  two  or  three  times  darkly.  Doctor  Blimber 
accompanied  them ;  and  Paul  had  the  honor  of  being 
taken  in  tow  by  the  doctor  himself:  a  distinguished 
state  of  things,  in  which  he  looked  very  little  and 
feeble. 

Tea  was  served  in  a  style  no  less  polite  than  the 
dinner ;  and  after  tea,  the  young  gentlemen  rising  and 
bowing  as  before,  withdrew  to  fetch  up  the  unfinislied 
tasks  of  that  day,  or  to  get  up  the  already  looming  tasks 
of  to-morrow.  In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Feeder  withdrew 
to  his  own  room ;  and  Paul  sat  in  a  corner  wondering 
whether  Florence  was  thinking  of  him,  and  what  they 
were  all  about  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's. 

Mr.  Toots,  who  had  been  detained  by  an  imporlaiJ 
letter  from  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  found  Paul  out 
after  a  time  ;  and  having  looked  at  him  for  a  long  while, 
:«  before,  inquired  if  he  was  fond  of  waistcoats. 

Paul  said  "  Yes,  sir." 

'•  So  am  I,"  said  Toots. 

No  word  more  spake  Toots  that  night ;  but  he  3tood 
coking  at  Paul  as  if  he  liked  him  ;  and  as  there  waa 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  235 

company  in  that,  and  Paul  was  not  inclined  to  talk,  it 
answered  his  purpose  better  than  converjiation. 

At  eight  o'clock  or  so,  the  gong  sounded  again  for 
prayers  in  the  dining-room,  where  the  butler  afterwards 
presided  over  a  side-table,  on  which  bread  and  cheese 
and  beer  were  spread  for  such  young  gentlemen  a^ 
desired  to  partake  of  those  refreshments.  The  cere- 
monies  concluded  by  the  doctor's  saying,  "  Gentlemen, 
we  will  resume  our  studies  at  seven  to-morrow ;  "  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  Paul  saw  Cornelia  Blimber'a 
eye,  and  saw  that  it  was  upon  him.  When  the  doctor 
had  said  these  words,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our 
studies  at  seven  to-morrow,"  the  pupils  bowed  again, 
and  went  to  bed.  • 

In  the  confidence  of  their  own  room  up-stairs,  Briggs 
said  his  head  ached  ready  to  split,  and  that  he  should 
wish  himself  dead  if  it  wasn't  for  his  mother,  and  a 
blackbird  he  had  at  home.  Tozer  didn't  say  much,  bu( 
he  sighed  a  good  deal,  and  told  Paul  to  look  out,  for  hia 
turn  would  come  to-morrow.  After  uttering  those  pro- 
phetic words,  he  undressed  himself  moodily,  and  got  into 
bed.  Briggs  was  in  his  bed  too,  and  Paul  in  his  bed  too, 
before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  appeared  to  take  away 
the  candle,  when  he  wished  them  good-night  and  plea* 
ant  dreams.  But  his  benevolent  wishes  were  in  vain, 
as  far  as  Briggs  and  Tozer  were  concerned  ;  for  Paul, 
who  lay  awake  for  a  long  while,  and  often  woke  after- 
wards,  fo  md  thiit  Briggs  was  ridden  by  his  lesson  as 
«  nightman  ;  and  that  Tozer,  whose  mind  was  affected 
In  his  sleep  by  similar  causes,  in  a  minor  degree,  talked 
unknown  tongues,  or  scraps  of  Greek  and  Latin  —  it 
was  all  one  to  Paul  —  which,  in  the  silence  of  night,  had 
an  inexpressibly  wicked  and  gailty  effect. 


286  DOMBET  AND  SOF. 

Paul  had  sunk  into  a  sweet  sleep,  and  dreamed  that 
he  was  walking  band  in  hand  with  Florence  through 
beautiful  gardens,  when  they  came  to  a  large  sunflower 
which  suddenly  expanded  itself  into  a  gong,  and  began 
to  sound.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  found  that  it  was  a 
dark,  windy  morning,  with  a  drizzling  rain  ;  and  that 
the  real  gong  was  giving  dreadful  note  of  preparation, 
down  in  the  hall. 

So  he  got  up  directly,  and  found  Briggs  with  hardly 
any  eyes,  for  nightmare  and  grief  had  made  his  face 
puffy,  putting  his  boots  on  :  while  Tozer  stood  shiver- 
ing and  rubbing  his  shoulders  in  a  very  bad  humor. 
Poor  Paul  couldn't  dress  himself  easily,  not  being  used 
to  it,  and  asked  them  if  they  \^uld  have  the  goodness 
to  tie  some  strings  for  him  ;  but  as  Briggs  merely  said 
"  Bother  !  "  and  Tozer,  "  Oh  yes ! "  he  went  down  when 
he  was  otherwise  ready,  to  the  next  story,  where  he 
saw  a  pretty  young  woman  in  leather  gloves,  cleaning 
h  stove.  The  young  woman  seemed  surprised  at  his 
appearance,  and  asked  him  where  his  mother  was. 
When  Paul  told  her  she  was  dead,  she  took  her  gloves 
off,  and  did  what  he  wanted;  and  furthermore  rubbed 
his  hands  to  warm  them ;  and  gave  him  a  kiss ;  and 
told  him  whenever  he  wanted  anything  of  that  sort  — 
meaning  in  the  dressing  way  —  to  ask  for  'Melia  ;  which 
Paul,  thanking  her  very  much,  said  he  certainly  would. 
He  then  proceeded  .softly  on  his  journey  down-stairg, 
towards  the  room  in  which  the  young  gentlemen  re- 
sumed their  studies,  when,  passing  by  a  door  that  stood 
ajar,  a  voice  from  within  cried  "  Is  that  Dombey  ?  "  On 
Paul  replying,  "  Yes,  ma'am  : "  for  he  knew  the  voic« 
to  be  Miss  Blimber's :  Miss  Blimber  said  "  Come  in, 
Dombey"     And  in  he  went 


UOMBEY  AND  SON.  287 

Miss  Blimber  presented  exactly  the  appearance  she 
Had  presented  yesterday,  except  that  she  wore  a  shawj. 
Her  Httle  light  curls  were  as  crisp  as  ever,  and  she  had 
already  her  spectacles  on,  which  made  Paul  wonder 
whether  she  went  to  bed  in  them.  She  had  a  cool  lit- 
tle sitting-room  of  her  own  up  there,  with  some  books 
in  it,  and  no  fire.  But  Miss  Blimber  was  never  cold, 
and  never  sleepy. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  I'm  going  out 
for  a  constitutional." 

Paul  wondered  what  that  was,  and  why  she  didn't 
pend  the  footman  out  to  get  it  in  such  unfavorable 
weather.  But  he  made  no  observation  on  the  subject: 
his  attention  being  devoted  to  a  little  pile  of  new  book?!, 
on  which  Miss  Blimber  appeared  to  have  been  recentl} 
engaged. 

"  These  are  yonrs,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber. 

"  All  of  'em,  ma'am  ?  "  said  Paul. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Miss  Blimber ;  "  and  Mr.  Feedet 
will  look  you  out  some  more  very  soon,  if  you  are  as 
studious  as  I  expect  you  will  be,  Dombey." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"  I  am  going  out  for  a  constitutional,"  resumed  Miss 
Blimber ;  "  and  while  I  am  gone,  that  is  to  say  in  the 
interval  between  this  and  breakfast,  Dombey,  I  wish 
you  to  read  over  what  I  have  marked  in  these  books, 
and  to  tell  me  if  you  quite  understand  what  you  have 
got  to  learn.  Don't  lose  time,  Dombey,  for  you  have 
lone  to  spare,  but  take  them  down-stairs,  and  begitt 
directly." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Paul. 

There  were  so  many  of  them,  that  although  Paul  put 
one  hand  under  the  bottom  book  and    his   other  hand 


238  DilMBEY  AUD  SON. 

and  his  chin  on  the  top  book,  and  hugged  ti.em  all 
closely,  the  middle  book  slipped  out  before  he  reached 
tbe  door,  and  then  they  all  tumbled  down  on  the  floor. 
Miss  Blimber  said,  "Oh,  Dombey,  Dombey,  this  is  really 
very  careless ! "  and  piled  them  up  afresh  for  him  ;  and 
this  time,  by  dint  of  balancing  them  with  great  nicety, 
Paul  got  out  of  the  i-oom,  and  down  a  few  stairs  be- 
fore two  of  them  escaped  again.  But  he  held  the  rest 
BO  light,  tliat  he  only  left  one  more  on  the  first  floor, 
and  one  in  the  passage ;  and  when  he  had  got  the  main 
body  down  into  the  school-room,  he  set  off  up-stairs 
again  to  collect  the  stragglers.  Having  at  last  amassed 
the  whole  library,  and  climbed  into  his  place,  he  fell  to 
work,  encouraged  by  a  remark  from  Tozer  to  the  effect 
that  he  "  was  in  for  it  now  ; "  which  was  the  only  inter- 
ruption he  received  till  breakfast  time.  At  that  meal, 
for  which  he  had  no  appetite,  everything  was  quite  as 
solemn  and  genteel  as  at  the  others;  and  when  it  was 
finished,  he  followed  Miss  Blimber  up-stairs. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  said  JVIiss  Blimber.  "  How  have 
you  got  on  with  those  books  ?  " 

They  comprised  a  little  English,  and  a  deal  of  Latin 
—  names  of  things,  declensions  of  articles  and  substan^ 
tires,  exercises  thereon,  and  preliminary  rules  —  a  trifle 
of  orthography,  a  glance  at  ancient  history,  a  wink  oi 
two  at  modern  ditto,  a  few  tables,  two  or  three  M-eights 
and  measures,  and  a  little  general  information.  When 
poor  Paul  had  spelt  out  number  two,  he  found  he  had  no 
idea  of  number  one ;  fragments  whereof  afterwards  ob- 
truded themselves  into  number  three,  which  slided  into 
Dumber  four,  which  grafted  itself  on  to  number  two. 
So  that  whether  twenty  Romuluses  made  a  Remus,  or 
hie  haec  hoc  was  troy  weight,  or  a  vei'b  always  agreed 


DOilBEY   AND  SON.  28j 

with  an  ancient  Briton,  or  three  times  four  was  Tauros 
A  bull,  were  open  questions  with  him, 

"  Oh,  Dotnbey,  Dorabey  !  "  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  this 
Is  very  shocking." 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Paul,  "  I  think  if  I  might  some- 
times talk  a  little  to  old  Glubb,  I  should  be  able  to  do 
better." 

"  Nonsense,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber.  "  I  couldn't 
hear  of  it.  This  is  not  the  place  for  Glubbs  of  any 
kind.  You  must  take  the  books  down,  1  suppose, 
Dombey,  one  by  one,  and  perfect  yourself  in  the  day's 
insUilment  of  subject  A,  before  you  turn  at  all  to  sub- 
ject B.  And  now  take  away  the  top  book,  if  you 
please,  Dombey,  and  return  when  you  are  master  of 
the  theme.*' 

Miss  lilimber  expressed  her  opinions  on  the  subject 
of  PaijI's  uninstructed  state  with  a  gloomy  delight,  as 
if  she  had  expected  this  result,  and  were  glad  to  find 
that  they  must  be  in  constant  communication.  Paul 
withdrew  with  the  top  task,  as  he  was  told,  and  labored 
away  at  it,  down  below  :  sometimes  remembering  every 
word  of  it,  and  sometimes  forgetting  it  all,  and  every- 
thing else  besides :  until  at  last  he  ventured  up-stairs 
again  to  repeat  the  lesson,  when  it  was  nearly  all  driven 
out  of  his  head  before  he  began,  by  Sliss  Blimber's 
whultiiig  up  the  book,  and  sayin'g,  "Goon,  Dombey!" 
a  proceeding  so  suggestive  of  the  knowledge  inside  of 
Tier,  that  Paul  looked  upon  the  young  lady  with  con- 
sternation, as  a  kind  of  learned  Guy  Faux,  or  artificial 
Bogle,  stuffed  full  of  scholastic  straw. 

lie  acquitted  himself  very  well,  neveitheless ;  and 
Miss  Blimber,  commending  him  as  giving  promise  of 
gett  ng  on  fast,  immediately  provided  him  with  subject 


240  DOMBEY  AND  SOK. 

B  ;  irotn  which  he  passed  to  C,  and  even  D  before  din- 
ner. It  was  hard  work,  resuming  his  studies,  soon  after 
dinner ;  and  he  felt  giddy  and  confused,  and  drowsy  and 
dull.  But  all  the  other  young  gentlemen  bad  similar 
sensations,  and  were  obliged  to  resume  their  studies  too, 
if  there  were  any  comfort  in  that.  It  was  a  wonder  that 
the  great  clock  in  the  hall,  instead  of  being  constant  to 
its  first  inquiry,  never  said,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  now 
resume  our  studies,"  for  that  phrase  was  often  enough 
repeated  in  its  neighborhood.  The  studies  went  round 
Kke  a  mighty  wheel,  and  the  young  gentlemen  were 
always  stretched  upon  it. 

After  tea  there  were  exercises  again,  and  preparations 
for  next  day  by  candle-light.  And  in  due  course  there 
was  bed ;  where,  but  for  that  resumption  of  the  studies 
which  took  place  in  dreams,  were  rest  and  sweet  forge t- 
fulness. 

Oh  Saturdays  !  Oh  happy  Saturdays  !  when  Florence 
always  came  at  noon,  and  never  would,  in  any  weather, 
stay  away,  though  Mrs.  Pipchin  snarled  and  growled, 
and  worried  her  bitterly.  Those  Saturdays  were  Sab- 
baths for  at  least  two  little  Christians  among  all  the 
Jews,  and  did  th.e  holy  Sabbath  work  of  strengthening 
and  knitting  up  a  brother's  and  a  sister's  love. 

Not  even  Sunday  nights  —  the  heavy  Sunday  nights, 
whose  shadow  darkened  the  first  waking  burst  of  ligLt 
on  Sunday  mornings  —  could  mar  those  precious  Satur- 
days. "Whether  it  was  the  great  sea-shore,  where  liny 
Bat,  and  strolled  together ;  or  whether  it  was  only  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  dull  back  room,  in  which  she  sung  to  him  ^a 
Boftly,  with  his  drowsy  head  upon  her  arm  ;  Paul  never 
eared.  It  was  Florence.  That  was  all  he  thought  of. 
80,  oii  Sunday  nights,  when  the  doctor's  dark  door  stood 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  241 

agape  to  swallow  liina  up  for  another  week,  the  time  wa^ 
come  for  taking  leave  of  Florence ;  no  one  else. 

Mrs.  Wickam  had  heen  drafted  home  to  the  house  in 
town,  and  Miss  Nipper,  now  a  smart  young  woman,  had 
eome  down.  To  many  a  single  combat  with  Mrs.  Pip» 
chin,  did  Miss  Nipper  gallantly  devote  herself;  and  if 
ever  Mrs,  Pipchin  in  all  her  life  had  found  her  match, 
fciis  had  found  it  now.  Miss  Nipper  throw  away  the 
scabbard  the  first  morning  she  arose  in  Mi-s.  Pipchin's 
house.  She  asked  and  gave  no  quarter.  She  said  it 
must  be  war,  and  war  it  was  ;  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  lived 
from  that  time  in  the  midst  of  surprises,  harassings, 
and  defiances  ;  and  skirmishing  attacks  that  came  boun- 
cing in  upon  her  from  the  passage,  even  in  unguarded 
moments  of  chops,  and  carried  desolation  to  her  very 
toast. 

Miss  Nipper  had  returned  one  Sunday  night  with 
Florence,  from  walking  back  with  Paul  to  the  doctor's, 
when  Florence  took  from  her  bosom  a  little  piece  of 
paper,  on  which  she  had  pencilled  down  some  woixls. 

"  See  here,  Susan,"  she  said.  "  These  are  the  namea 
of  the  little  books  that  Paul  brings  home  to  do  those 
IcTig  exercises  with,  when  he  is  so  tired.  1  copied  them 
last  night  while  he  was  writing." 

"  Don't  show  'em  to  me.  Miss  Floy,  if  you  please," 
returned  Nipper,  "  I'd  as  soon  see  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  I  want  you  to  buy  them  for  me,  Susan,  if  you 
mil,  to-morrow  morning.  I  have  money  enough,"  said 
Florence. 

"  Why,  goodness  gracious  me,  Miss  Floy,"  returned 
Miss  Nijjper,  "  how  can  you  talk  like  that,  when  you  have 
books  upon  books  already,  and  masierses  and  missessei 
a-teaching  of  you  everything  continual,  though  ray  belie/ 

TOU    I.  16 


242  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

is  that  your  pa,  Miss  Dombey,  never  would  have  learnt 
you  nothing,  never  would  have  thought  of  it,  unless  you'd 
asked  him  —  when  he  couldn't  well  refuse ;  but  giving 
consent  when  asked,  and  offering  when  unasked,  miss,  is 
quite  two  things ;  T  may  not  have  my  objections  to  s 
young  man's  keeping  company  with  me,  and  when  he 
puts  the  question,  may  say 'yes,' but  that's  not  saying 
'  would  you  be  so  kind  as  like  me.'  " 

"  But  you  can  buy  me  the  books,  Susan  ;  and  you  will, 
when  you  know  I  want  them." 

"  Well,  miss,  and  why  do  you  want  *em  ? "  replied 
Nipper ;  adding,  in  a  lower  voice,  "  if  it  was  to  fling  at 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  head,  I'd  buy  a  cart-load." 

"I  think  I  could  perhaps  give  Paul  some  help,  Susan, 
if  I  had  these  books,"  said  Florence,  "  and  make  the 
coming  week  a  little  easier  to  him.  At  least  I  want  to 
try.  So  buy  them  for  me,  dear,  and  I  will  never  forget 
how  kind  it  was  of  you  to  do  it ! " 

It  must  have  been  a  harder  heart  than  Susan  Nipper's 
that  could  have  rejected  the  little  purse  Florence  held 
out  with  these  words,  or  the  gentle  look  of  entreaty  with 
which  she  seconded  her  petition.  Susan  put  the  purse 
in  her  pocket  without  reply,  and  trotted  out  at  once 
upon  her  errand. 

The  books  were  not  easy  to  procure  ;  and  the  answer 
at  sevcial  shops  was,  either  that  they  were  just  cut  of 
them,  or  that  they  never  kept  them,  or  that  they  had  had 
H  great  many  last  month,  or  that  they  expected  a  greet 
many  next  week.  But  Susan  was  not  easily  baffled  in 
puch  an  enterprise  ;  and  having  entrapped  a  white-haired 
youth,  in  a  black  calico  apron,  from  a  library  where 
she  was  known,  to  accompany  her  in  her  quest,  she 
led  him    such    a  life  in  going    up   and   down,  that  he 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  243 

exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  if  it  were  only  to  get 
lid  of  her;  and  finally  enabled  her  to  return  home  in 
triumph. 

With  these  treasures  then,  after  her  own  daily  les- 
sons were  over,  Florence  sat  down  at  night  to  track 
Paul's  footsteps  through  the  thorny  ways  of  learning; 
and  being  possessed  of  a  naturally  quick  and  sound 
capacity,  and  taught  by  that  most  wonderful  of  masters, 
love,  it  was  not  long  before  she  gained  upon  Paul's  heels, 
and  caught  and  passed  him. 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  breathed  to  Mrs.  Pipchin : 
but  many  a  night  when  they  were  all  in  bed,  and  when 
Miss  Nipper,  with  her  hair  in  papers  and  herself  asleep 
in  some  uncomfortable  attitude,  reposed  unconscious  by 
her  side  ;  and  when  the  chinking  ashes  in  the  grate 
were  cold  and  gray ;  and  when  the  candles  were  burnt 
down  and  guttering  out ;  —  Florence  tried  so  hard  to 
be  a  substitute  for  one  small  Dombey,  that  her  forti- 
tude and  perseverance  might  have  almost  won  her  a 
free  right  to  bear  the  name  herself. 

And  high  was  her  reward,  when'^one  Saturday  even 
ing,  as  little  Paul  was  sitting  down  as  usual  to  "  resume 
his  studies,"  she  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  showed  hira 
all  that  was  so  rough,  made  smooth,  and  all  that  was 
so  dark,  made  clear  and  plain,  before  him.  It  was 
nothing  but  a  startled  look  in  Paul's  wan  face  —  a 
flush  — a  smile  — and  then  a  close  embrace  —  but  God 
knows  how  her  heart  leaped  up  at  this  rich  payment  foi 
her  trouble. 

"Oh,  Floy!  '  cried  her  brother,  "  how  I  lore  you! 
How  I  love  you,  Floy  ! " 

"  And  I  you,  dear  !  " 

« Oh !  I  am  sure  o^  that.  Floy." 


244  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

He  said  no  more  about  it,  but  all  that  evening  sat 
close  by  her,  very  quiet ;  and  in  the  night  he  called 
out  from  his  little  room  within  hers,  three  or  four  times, 
that  h6  loved  her. 

Regularly,  after  that,  Florence  was  prepared  to  sit 
down  with  Paul  on  Saturday  night,  and  patiently  as- 
sist him  through  so  much  as  they  could  anticipate  to- 
gether, of  his  next  week's  work.  The  cheering  thought 
that  he  was  laboring  on  where  Florence  had  just  toiled 
before  him,  would,  of  itself,  have  been  a  stimulant  to 
Paul  in  the  perpetual  resumption  of  his  studies;  but 
coupled  with  the  actual  lightening  of  his  load,  conse- 
quent on  this  assistance,  it  saved  him,  possibly  from  sink- 
ing underneath  the  burden  which  the  fair  Cornelia  Blira- 
ber  piled  upon  his  back. 

It  was  not  that  Miss  Blimber  meant  to  be  too  hard 
upon  hira,  or  that  Doctor  Blimber  meant  to  bear  too 
heavily  on  the  young  gentlemen  in  general.  Cornelia 
merely  held  the  faith  in  which  she  had  been  bred ;  and 
the  doctor,  in  some  partial  confusion  of  his  ideas,  re- 
garded the  young ''gentlemen  as  if  they  were  all  doc- 
tors, and  were  born  grown  up.  Comforted  by  the  ap- 
plause of  the  young  gentlemen's  nearest  relations,  and 
urged  on  by  their  blind  vanity  and  ill-considered  haste, 
it  would  have  been  strange  if  Doctor  Blimber  had  dis- 
covered his  mistake,  or  trimmed  his  swelling  sails  to 
any  other  tack. 

Thus  in  the  case  of  Paul.  When  Doctor  Blimber 
taid  he  made  great  progress,  and  was  naturally  clever, 
Mr.  D>mbey  was  more  bent  than  ever  on  his  being 
Forced  and  crammed.  In  the  case  of  Briggs,  when 
Doctor  Blimber  reported  that  he  did  not  make  great 
pTOgiess  yet,  and  was  not  naturally  clever,  Briggs  se 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  244 

Dior  was  inexorable  iu  the  same  purpose.  In  short, 
however  high  and  false  the  temperature  at  which  the 
doctor  kept  his  hot-house,  the  owners  of  the  plants  were 
always  ready  to  lend  a  helping-hand  at  the  bellows^ 
and  to  stir  the  fire. 

Such  spirits  as  he  had  in  the  outset,  Paul  soon  lost 
of  course.  But  he  retained  all  that  was  strange,  and 
old,  and  thoughtful  in  his  character:  and  under  cir- 
cumstances so  favorable  to  the  development  of  those 
tendencies,  became  even  more  strange,  and  old,  and 
thoughtful,  than  before. 

The  only  difference  was,  that  he  kept  his  character 
to  himself.  He  grew  more  thoughtful  and  reserved, 
every  day ;  and  had  no  such  curiosity  in  any  living  mem- 
ber of  the  doctor's  household,  as  he  had  had  in  Mrs. 
Pipchiii.  He  loved  to  be  alone ;  and  in  those  short  in- 
tervals when  he  was  not  occupied  with  his  books,  liked 
nothing  so  well  as  wandering  about  the  house  by  himself, 
or  sitting  on  the  stairs,  listening  to  the  great  clock  in  the 
hall.  He  was  intimate  with  all  the  paper-hanging  in 
the  house ;  saw  things  that  no  one  else  saw  in  the 
patternf. ;  found  out  miniature  tigers  and  lions  running 
up  the  bedroom  walls,  and  squinting  faces  leering  in 
the  squares  and  diamond;?  of  the  floor-cloth. 

The  solitary  child  lived  on,  surrounded  by  this  ara- 
besque work  of  his  musing  fancy,  and  no  one  understood 
him.  Mrs.  Blimber  thought  him  "  odd,"  and  sometimes 
the  servants  said  among  themselves  that  little  Dombey 
•*  moped ;  "  but  that  was  all. 

Unless  young  Toots  had  some  idea  on  the  subject,  to 
jhe  expression  of  which  he  was  wholly  unequal.  Ideas, 
like  ghosts  (according  to  the  common  notion  of  ghosts), 
Uust   be    spoken    to   a   little    before    they    will  txplain 


246  DOMBEY  AND  S05. 

iLemselvcs ;  and  Toots  had  long  left  off  aikrag  any 
questions  of  his  own  mind.  Some  mist  there  may  have 
been,  issuing  from  that  leaden  ctisket,  his  cranium, 
«rhich,  if  it  could  have  taken  shape  and  form,  would 
have  become  a  genie;  but  it  could  not;  and  it  only 
BO  far  followed  the  example  of  the  smoke  in  the  Ara- 
bian story,  as  to  roll  out  in  a  thick  cloud,  and  there 
hang  and  hover.  But  it  left  a  little  figure  visible  upoo 
a  lonely  shore,  and  Toots  was  always  staring  at  it. 

"  How  are  you  ? "  he  would  say  to  Paul  lifty  times 
a  day.  "  Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you,"  Paul  would  an- 
swer.    **  Shake  hands, "  would  be  Toots's  next  advance. 

Which  Paul,  of  course,  would  immediately  do.  Mr. 
Toots  generally  said  again,  after  a  long  interval  of 
staring  and  hard  breathing,  "  How  are  you  ? "  To 
tvhich  Paul  again  replied,  "  Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you." 
One  evening  Mr.  Toots  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  op- 
pressed by  correspondence,  when  a  great  purpose  seemed 
to  flash  upon  him.  He  laid  down  his  pen,  and  went  off 
to  seek  Paul,  whom  he  found  at  last,  after  a  long  seuixsh, 
looking  through  the  window  of  his  little  bedroom. 

"  I  say  I  "  cried  Toots,  speaking  the  moment  he  en- 
tered the  room,  lest  he  should  forget  it ;  ''  what  do  you 
think  about  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  think  about  a  great  many  things,"  replied 
Paul. 

"  Do  you,  though  ?  "  said  Toots,  appearing  to  consider 
that  fact  in  itself  surprising. 

"  If  you  had  to  die,"  said  Paul,  looking  up  into  his 
face  —  Mr.  Toots  started,  and  seemed  much  disturl)ed. 

—  "  Don't  you  think  you  would  rather  die  on  a  moon 
light  night  when  the  sky  waj  quite  clear,  and  the  vnn-. 
blowing,  as  it  did  last  night  ?  " 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  247 

Mr.  Toots  said,  looking  doubtfully  at  Paul,  and  shak- 
ing his  head,  that  he  didu't  know  about  ihat. 

"Not  blowing,  at  luast,  '  said  Paul,  ''but  sounding  it 
the  air  like  the  sea  sounds  in  the  shells.  It  was  a 
beautiful  night.  When  I  had  listened  to  the  water  lor 
Id  long  time,  I  got  up  and  looked  out.  There  was  a 
bosit  over  there,  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon ;  a  boat 
with  a  sail." 

The  child  looked  at  him  so  steadfastly,  and  spoke  so 
earnestly,  that  Mr.  Toots,  feeling  himself  called  upon 
to  say  something  about  this  boat,  said,  "  Smugglers." 
But  with  an  impartial  remembrance  of  there  being  two 
Bides  to  every  question,  he  added,  "  or  Preventive." 

"  A  boat  with  a  sail,"  repeated  Paul,  "  in  the  full  light 
of  the  moon.  The  sail  like  an  arm,  all  silver.  It  went 
away  in(o  the  distance,  and  what  do  you  think  it  seemed 
to  do  as  it  moved  with  the  waves  ? " 

"Pitcli,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  It  seemed  to  beckon,"  said  the  child,  "  to  beckon 
me  to  come !  —  There  she  is  !     There  she  is  !  " 

Toots  was  almost  beside  himself  with  dismay  at  this 
sudden  exclamation,  after  what  had  gone  before,  and 
cried  "Who?" 

"  My  sister  Florence  I  "  cried  Paul,  "  looking  up  here, 
and  waving  her  hand.  She  sees  me  —  she  sees  mel 
Good-night,  dear,  good-night,  good-night." 

His  quick  tx-ansition  to  a  state  of  unbounded  pleasure, 
ns  he  stood  at  his  window,  kissing  and  clapping  his 
hands:  and  the  way  in  which  the  light  retreated  from 
Lis  features  as  she  passed  out  of  his  view,  and  left  a 
patient  melancholy  on  the  little  face :  were  too  remark- 
able wholly  to  escape  even  Toots's  notice.  Their  in- 
terview   being   interrupted   at    this  moment  by   a   visit 


24a  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

from  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who  usually  brought  her  black  skirta 
to  bear  upon  Paul  just  before  dusk,  once  or  t\vice  a 
week,  Toots  had  no  opportunity  of  improving  the  occa* 
gion  ;  but  it  left  so  marked  an  impression  on  his  mind, 
that  he  twice  returned,  after  having  exchanged  the  usual 
salutations,  to  ask  Mrs.  Pipchin  how  she  did.  This  the 
irascible  old  lady  conceived  to  be  a  deeply-devised  and 
long-meditated  insult,  originating  in  the  diabolical  ini  en 
tion  of  the  weak-eyed  young  man  down-stairs,  against 
whom  she  accordingly  lodged  a  formal  complaint  with 
Doctor  Bliraber  that  very  night ;  who  mentioned  to 
the  young  man  that  if  he  ever  did  it  again,  he  should 
be  obliged  to  part  with  him. 

The  evenings  being  longer  now,  Paul  stole  up  to 
his  window  every  evening  to  look  out  for  Florence. 
She  always  passed  and  repassed  at  a  certain  time,  until 
she  saw  him ;  and  their  mutual  recognition  was  a  gleam 
of  sunshine  in  Paul's  daily  life.  Often  after  dark,  one 
other  figure  walked  alone  before  the  doctor's  house. 
He  rarely  joined  them  on  the  Saturday  now.  He 
could  not  bear  it.  He  would  rather  come  unrecog- 
nized, and  look  up  at  the  windows  where  his  son  was 
qualifying  for  a  man ;  and  wait,  and  watch,  and  plan, 
and  hope. 

Oh !  could  he  but  have  seen,  or  seen  as  others  did, 
iLe  slight  spare  boy  above,  watching  the  waves  and 
t'ouds  at  twilight,  with  his  earnest  eyes,  and  breasting 
trie  window  of  his  solitary  cage  when  birds  flew  by- 
rs  if  he  would  have  emulated  them,  and   soared   away. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  249 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BHIPriNQ   r:TTELLIGENCE    AND   OFFICE   BUSINESS. 

Mr.  Dombey's  offices  were  in  a  court  where  there  was 
an  old-estabhshed  stall  of  choice  fruit  at  the  comer: 
where  perambulating  merchants,  of  both  sexes,  offered 
for  sale  at  any  time  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  five, 
slippers,  pocket-books,  sponges,  dogs'  collars,  and  Windsor 
soap;  and  sometimes  a  pointer  or  an  oil-painting. 

The  pointer  always  came  that  way,  with  a  view  to  the 
Stock  Exchange,  where  a  sporting  taste  (originating 
generally  in  bets  of  new  hat?)  is  much  in  vogue.  The 
other  commodities  were  addressed  to  the  general  public  ; 
but  they  were  never  offered  by  the  vendors  to  Mr.  Dona- 
bey.  When  he  appeared,  the  dealers  in  those  wares  fell 
off  respectfully.  The  principal  slipper  and  dogs'  collar 
man  —  who  considered  himself  a  public  character,  and 
whose  portrait  was  screwed  on  to  an  artist's  door  in 
Cheapside  —  threw  up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  bis 
hat  as  Mr.  Dombey  went  by.  The  ticket-porter,  if  he 
were  not  absent  on  a  job,  always  ran  officiously  before, 
to  open  Mr.  Dombey's  office-door  as  wide  as  possible, 
and  hold  it  open,  with  his  hat  off,  while  he  entered. 

The  clerks  witliin  were  not  a  whit  behindhand  in 
iheir  demonstrations  of  respect.  A  solemn  hush  pre- 
vailed, as  Mr.  Dombey  passed  through  the  outer  office. 
The  wit  of  the  Counting-House  became  in  a  moment  as 


V 


250  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

mute,  as  the  row  of  leathern  fire-buckets,  hanging  up 
behind  him.  Such  vapid  and  flat  daylight  as  filtered 
through  the  ground-glass  windows,  and  sivylights,  leaving 
a  black  sediuient  upon  the  panes,  showed  the  books  and 
papers,  and  the  figures  bending  over  them,  enveloped 
in  a  studious  gloom,  and  as  much  abstracted  in  appear- 
ance, from  the  world  without,  as  if  they  were  assembled 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  while  a  mouldy  little  strong 
room  in  the  obscure  perspective,  where  a  shaded  lamp 
was  always  burning,  might  have  represented  the  cavern 
of  some  ocean-monster,  looking  on  with  a  red  eye  at 
these  mysteries  of  the  deep. 

When  Perch,  the  messenger,  whose  place  was  on  a 
little  bracket,  like  a  timepiece,  saw  Mr.  Dombey  come 
in  —  or  rather,  when  he  felt  that  he  was  coming,  for  he 
had  usually  an  instinctive  sense  of  his  approach  —  he 
hurried  into  Mr.  Dorabey's  room,  stirred  tlie  fire,  quar- 
ried fresh  coals  from  the  bowels  of  the  coal-box,  hung 
tlie  newspaper  to  air  upon  the  fender,  put  the  chair 
ready,  and  the  screen  in  its  place,  and  was  round  upon 
his  heel  on  tlie  instant  of  Mr.  Dombey's  entrance,  to  take 
his  great  coat  and  hat,  and  hang  them  up.  Then  Perch 
took  the  newspaper,  and  gave  it  a  turn  or  two  in  his 
iiands  befoi'e  the  fire,  and  laid  it,  deferentially,  at  Mr. 
Dombey's  elbow.  And  so  little  objection  had  Perch  to 
loing  deferential  in  the  last  degree,  that  if  he  might 
have  laid  himself  at  Mr.  Dombey's  feet,  or  might  have 
nailed  him  by  some  such  title  as  used  to  be  bestowed 
upon  the  Caliph  Haroun  Alraschid,  he  would  have  been 
all  the  better  pleased. 

As  this  honor  would  have  been  an  innovation  and 
on  experiment.  Perch  was  fain  to  content  himself  by 
expressing  as   well   as  he  could,  in    his   manner,  You 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  251 

are  the  light  of  my  Eyes.  You  are  (he  Rrealh  of 
my  Soul.  You  are  the  commander  of  tlie  Faithful 
Perch!  With  this  imperfect  happiness  to  cheer  him, 
he  would  shut  the  door  softly,  walk  away  on  tiptoe, 
and  leave  his  great  chief  to  be  stared  at,  through  a 
dome-shaped  window  in  the  leads,  by  ugly  chimney-pots 
and  backs  of  houses,  and  especially  by  the  bold  window 
of  a  hair-cutling  saloon  on  a  first  floor,  where  a  waxen 
effigy,  bald  as  a  Mussulman  in  the  morning,  and  covered 
after  eleven  o'clock  in  the  day,  with  luxuriant  hair  and 
whiskers  in  the  latest  Christian  fashion,  showed  him  the 
wrong  side  of  its  head  forever.  -TJiiJ^i   fiBiii 

Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  common  world,  as  ii 
was  accessible  through  the  medium  of  the  outer  office  — - 
to  which  Mr.  Dombey's  presence  in  his  owo-  room  may 
be  said  to  have  struck  like  damp,  or  cold  air  —  there 
were  two  degrees  of  descent.  Mr.  Carker  in  his  own 
office  was  the  first  step ;  Mr.  Morfin,  in  his  own  office, 
was  the  second.  Each  of  these  gentlemen  occupied  a 
little  chamber  like  a  bath-room,  opening  from  the  pas- 
sage outside  Mr.  Dombey's  door.  Mr.  Carker,  as  Grand 
Vizier,  inhabited  the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  Sul- 
tan. Mr.  Morfin,  as  an  officer  of  inferior  state,  inhab- 
ited the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  clerks. 

The  gentleman  last  mentioned  was  a  cheerful-looking 
hazel-eyed  elderly  bachelor :  gravely  attired,  as  to  hia 
upper  man,  in  black ;  and  as  to  his  legs,  in  pepper  and 
salt  color.  His  dark  hair  was  just  touched  here  and 
there  with  specks  of  gray,  as  though  the  tread  of  Time 
had  splashed  it :  and  his  whiskers  were  already  white. 
He  had  a  mighty  respect  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  rendered 
him  due  homage  ;  but  as  he  was  of  a  genial  temper 
himself,  and  never  wholly  at  his  ease  •"  fhat  stately 


252  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

presence,  he  was  disquieted  by  no  jealousy  of  the  many 
conferences  enjoyed  by  Mr.  Carker,  and  felt  a  secret 
Batisfaction  in  having  duties  to  discharge,  which  rarely 
exposed  him  to  be  singled  out  for  such  distinction.  He 
was  a  great  musical  amateur  in  his  way  —  after  busi- 
ness ;  and  had  a  paternal  affection  for  Ijis  violoncello 
which  was  once  in  every  week  transported  from  Isling- 
ton, his  place  of  abode,  to  a  ceitain  club-room  hard  by 
the  Bank,  where  quai'tettes  of  the  most  tormenting  and 
excruciating  nature  were  executed  every  Wednesday 
evening  by  a  private  party.  Mr.  Carker  was  a  gentle- 
man thirty-eight  or  forty  years  old,  of  a  florid  com- 
plexion, and  with  two  unbroken  rows  of  glistening  teeth, 
whose  regularity  and  whiteness  were  quite  distressing. 
It  was  impossible  to  escape  the  observation  of  them, 
for  he  showed  them  whenever  he  spoke ;  and  bore  so 
wide  a  smile  upon  his  countenance  (a  smile,  however, 
very  rarely,  indeed,  extending  beyond  his  mouth),  that 
there  was  something  in  it  like  the  snarl  of  a  cat.  He 
affected  a  stiff  white  cravat,  after  the  example  of  his 
principal,  and  was  always  closely  buttoned  up  and  tightly 
dressed.  His  manner  towards  Mr.  Dombey  was  deeply 
conceived  and  perfectly  expressed.  He  was  familiar 
with  him,  in  the  very  extremity  of  his  sense  of  the 
distance  between  them.  "Mr.  Dombey,  to  a  man  in 
your  position  from  a  man  in  mine,  there  is  no  show  of 
subservience  compatible  with  the  transaction  of  business 
between  us,  that  I  should  think  sufficient.-  I  frankly 
tell  you,  sir,  I  give  it  up  altogether.  I  feel  that  I  could 
not  satisfy  my  own  mind;  and  Heaven  knows,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, you  can  afford  to  dispense  with  the  endeavor."  If 
he  had  carried  these  words  about  with  him,  printed  on  a 
placard,  and  had  constantly  offered  it  to  Mr.  Dombey's 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.       "  2fiS 

perusal  oa  the  breast  of  his  coat,  he  could  not  have  been 
more  explicit  than  he  was. 

Tliis  was  Carker  the  manager.  Mr.  Carker  the  junior 
Walter's  friend,  was  his  brother;  two  or  three  years 
older  than  he,  but  widely  removed  in  station.  The 
younger  brother's  post  was  on  the  top  of  the  oflBcial 
ladder ;  the  elder  brother's  at  the  bottom.  The  elder 
brother,  never  gained  a  stave,  or  raised  his  foot  to  mount 
one.  Young  men  passed  above  his  head,  and  rose  and 
rose;  but  he  was  always  at  the  bottom.  He  was  f[uite 
resigned  to  occupy  that  low  condition :  never  complained 
of  it:  and  certainly  never  hoped  to  escape  from  it. 

"  How  do  you  do  this  morning?"  said  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager,  entering  Mr.  Dombey's  room  soon  after  hia 
arrival  one  day  :  with  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Carker  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey  rising 
from  his  chair,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
"  Have  you  anything  there  for  me  ?  " 

"  T  don't  know  that  I  need  trouble  you,"  returned 
Carker,  turning  over  the  papers  in  his  hand.  "  You 
have  a  committee  to-day  at  three,  you  know." 

"  And  one  at  three,  three  quarters,"  added  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

"  Catch  you  forgetting  anything  !  "  exclaimed  Carker, 
Btill  turning  over  his  papers.  "  If  Mr.  Paul  inherits 
your  memory,  he'll  be  a  troublesome  customer  in  the 
House.     One  of  you  is  enough." 

**  You  have  an  accurate  memory  of  your  own,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Oh !  /"  returned  the  manager.  "  It's  the  only 
capital  of  a  man  like  me." 

Mr.  Dombey  did  not  look  less  pompous  or  at  all  dis- 
pleased, as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  chimney-pieoe, 


254  DOBIBEY  AND  SON. 

Burve}  ing  his  (of  course  unconscioas)  clerk,  from  head 
to  foot.  Tlie  stiffness  and  nicety  of  Mr.  Carker's  dress, 
and  a  certain  arrogance  of  manner,  either  natural  to 
him  or  imitated  from  a  pattern  not  far  off,  gave  great 
additional  effect  to  his  humility.  He  seemed  a  man  who 
would  contend  against  the  power  that  vanquished  hini, 
if  he  could,  but  who  was  utterly  borne  down  by  tbe 
greatness  and  superiority  of  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Is  Morfin  here  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey  after  a  short 
pau!»e,  during  which  Mr.  Carker  had  been  Muttering  his 
papers,  and  muttering  little  abstracts  of  their  contents  to 
himself. 

"  Morfin's  here,"  he  answered,  looking  up  with  his 
widest  and  most  sudden  smile  ;  "  humming  musical  rec- 
ollections —  of  his  last  night's  quartette  party,  I  suppose 
—  through  the  walls  between  us,  and  driving  me  half 
road.  I  wish  he'd  mak  *.  a  bonfire  of  his  violoncello,  and 
burn  his  music-books  ir.  it." 

"  You  respect  nobc.dy,  Carker,  I  think,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  No  ?  "  inquired  Carker,  with  another  wide  and  most 
feline  show  of  his  teeth.  "  Well !  Not  many  people  I 
believe.  I  wouldn't  answer,  perhaps,'*  he  murmured,  as 
if  he  were  only  thinking  it,  "  for  more  than  one." 

A  dangerous  quality,  if  real ;  and  a  not  less  danger- 
ous one,  if  feigned.  But  Mr.  Dombey  hardly  seemed 
to  think  so,  as  he  still  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fii«, 
drawn  up  to  his  full  height,  and  looking  at  his  he»d- 
clerk  with  a  dignified  composure,  in  which  there  seemed 
to  lurk  a  stronger  latent  sense  of  power  than  usi  al. 

"  Talking  of  Morfin,"  resumed  Mr.  Carker,  taking  oul 
one  paper  from  the  rest,  "  he  reports  a  junior  dea\d  in 
the  agency  at  Barbadoes  and  proposes  to  reserve  a  paH- 


30HBEY  AND  SON-  $Bfi 

sage  in  the  Son  »nd  Heir  —  she'll  sail  in  a  month  or  so 
—  for  tlie  successor.  You  don't  care  who  goes,  I  sup. 
pose?     We  have  nobody  of  that  sort  here." 

Mr.  Dorabey  shook  his  head  with  supreme  in«lifler- 
ence. 

"It's  no  very  precious  appointment,"  observid  ]\I'. 
Carker,  taking  up  a  pen,  with  which  to  indorse  a  meni- 
cranduni  on  the  back  of  the  paper.  "  I  hope  he  may 
bestow  it  on  some  orphan  nephew  of  a  musical  friend. 
It  may  perhaps  stop  his  fiddle-playing,  if  he  has  a  gift 
that  way.     Who's  that  ?     Come  in  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Carker.  I  didn't  know  you 
were  here,  sir,"  answered  Walter,  appearing  with  some 
letters  in  his  hand,  unopened,  and  newly  arrived.  '•  Mr. 
Carker  the  junior,  sir  "  — 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  Mr.  Carker  the  man- 
afzer  was,  or  affected'  to  be,  touched  to  the  quick  willi 
siianie  and  humiliation.  He  cast  his  eyes  full  on  Mr. 
Dorabey  with  an  altered  and  apologetic  look,  abased 
them  on  the  ground,  and  remained  for  a  moment  with- 
out speaking.' 

"  I  thought,  sir,"  he  said  suddenly  and  angrily,  turn- 
ing on  Walter,  "  that  you  had  been  before  requested  not 
to  drag  Mr.  Carker  tlie  junior  into  your  conversation." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Walter.  "  I  was  only 
going  to  .say  tiiat  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  had  told  me  he 
believed  you  were  gone  out,  or  I  should  not  have  knocked 
nt  the  door  when  you  were  engaged  with  Mr.  Dombey 
These  are  letters  for  Mr.  Dombey,  sir." 

"  Very  Avell,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
plucking  them  sharply  from  his  hand.  "  Gro  about  your 
business." 

But  in  taking  them  with  so  little  ceremony,  Mr.  Car 


v 


256  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

ker  dropped  one  on  the  floor,  and  did  not  "^ee  what,  ho 
had  done ;  neither  did  Mr.  Dombey  observe  the  letter 
lying  near  his  feet.  Walter  hesitated  for  a  nQoment, 
thinking  that  one  or  other  of  Ihem  would  notice  it ;  but 
finding  that  neither  did,  he  stopped,  came  back,  picked 
it  up,  and  laid  it  himself  on  Mr.  Dombey's  desk.  The 
etters  were  post-letters ;  and  it  happened  that  the  one 
in  question  was  Mrs.  Pipchin's  regular  report,  directed 
as  usual  —  for  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  but  an  indifferent  pen- 
woman  —  by  Florence.  Mr.  Dombey  having  his  atten- 
tion silently  called  to  this  letter  by  Walter,  started,  and 
looked  fiercely  at  him,  as  if  he  believed  that  he  had 
purposely  selected  it  from  all  the  rest. 

"You  can  leave  the  room,  sir!"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
haughtily. 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand ;  and  having  watched 
Walter  out  at  the  door,  put  it  in  his  pocket  without 
breaking  the  seal. 

"  You  want  somebody  to  send  to  the  West  Indies, 
you  were  saying,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  hurriedly. 

*'  Yes,"  replied  Carker. 

"  Send  young  Gay." 

"  Good,  very  good  indeed.  Nothing  easier,**  said  Mr. 
Carker,  without  any  show  of  surprise,  and  taking  up  the 
pen  to  reindorse  the  letter,  as  coolly  as  he  had  done  bfr 
ft  re.     " '  Send  young  Gray.* " 

**  Call  him  back,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  was  quick  to  do  so,  and  Walter  was  qaick 
\o  return. 

"  Gray,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  a  little  to  look  a( 
him  over  his  shoulder.     "  Here  is  a  "  — 

"  An  opening,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth 
ttretched  to  the  utmost. 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  257 

"In  the  West  Indies.  Ai  Barbadoes.  I  am  going  to 
send  you,"  said  3Ir.  Dorabey,  scorning  to  embellish  the 
bare  truth,  "  to  fill  a  junior  situation  in  the  counting- 
house  at  Barbadoes.  Let  your  uncle  know  from  me, 
that  I  have  chosen  you  to  go  to  the  West  Indies." 

Walter's  breath  was  so  completely  taken  away  hj  his 
astonishment,  that  he  could  hardly  find  enough  for  thii 
repetition  of  the  word*  "  West  Indies." 

"  Somebody  must  go,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  and  you 
Are  young  and  healthy,  and  your  uncle's  circumstances 
are  not  good.  Tell  your  uncle  that  you  are  appointed. 
You  will  not  go  yet.  There  will  be  an  interval  of  a 
month  —  or  two  perhaps." 

"Shall  I  remain  there,  sir?"  inquired  Walter. 

"  Will  you  remain  there,  sir !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey, 
turning  a  little  more  round  towards  him.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?     What  does  he  mean,  Carker  ?  " 

"  Live  there,  sir,"  faltered  Walter. 

''  Certainly,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

Walter  bowed. 

"  Tliat's  all,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  his  letters, 
"  You  will  explain  to  him  in  good  time  about  the  usual 
outfit  and  so  forth,  Carker,  of  course.  He  needn't  wait, 
Carker." 

"  You  needn't  wait,  Gay,"  observed  Mr.  Carker:  bare 
lu  the  gums. 

"  Unless,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  in  his  reading 
/ithout  looking  off  the  letter,  and  seeming  to  listen. 
*  Unless  he  has  anything  to  say." 

"  No,  sir,"  returned  Waller,  agitated  and  confused,  and 
almost  stunnnl,  as  an  infinite  variety  of  pictures  pre- 
sented themselves  to  his  mind ;  among  which  CapUm 
Cuttle,  in  his  glazed  hat,  transfixed  with  astonishm'^m 

V.M.     I.  17 


258  DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 

Rt  Mrs.  MacStiiiger's,  and  his  uncle  bemoaning  his  Iwa 
In  the  little  back-parlor,  held  prominent  pluccs.  "  I 
hardly  know  —  I  —  I  am  much  obliged,  sir.'' 

"  He  needn't  wait,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

And  as  Mr.  Carker  again  echoed  the  words,  and  abo 
collected  his  papers  as  if  he  were  going  awny  too 
Walter  felt  that  his  lingering  any  longer  would  be  an 
unpardonable  intrusion  —  especially  as  he  had  nothing 
to  say  —  and  therefore  walked  out  quite  confounded. 

Going  along  the  passage,  with  the  mingled  conscious- 
ness and  helplessness  of  a  dream,  he  heard  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  door  shut  again,  as  Mr.  Carker  came  out :  and 
immediately  afterwards  that  gentleman  called  to  him. 

"  Bring  your  friend  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  to  my 
room,  sir,  if  you  please." 

Walter  went  to  the  outer  oflTice  and  apprised  Mr. 
Carker  the  junior  of  his  errand,  wlio  accordingly  came 
out  from  behind  a  partition  where  he  sat  alone  in  one 
corner,  and  returned  with  him  to  the  room  of  Mr.  Car- 
ker the  manager. 

Tiiat  gentleman  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  and  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  looking  over 
his  white  cravat,  as  unpromisingly  as  Mr.  Dombey  him  ■ 
nclf  could  have  looked.  He  received  them  without  any 
change  in  his  attitude  or  softening  of  his  harsh  and 
hlack  expression:  merely  signing  to  Walter  to  <lof> 
the  door. 

"John  Carker,"  said  the  manager,  when  this  was  done 
turning  suddenly  upon  his  brother,  with  his  two  rows  of 
inclh  bristling  as  if  he  would  have  bitten  him,  "what 
VS  the  league  between  you  and  this  young  man,  in  vir- 
tue of  which  I  am  haunted  and  hunted  by  the  mention 
»f  your  name  ?     Is  it  not  enough  for  you,  John  Carker. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  259 

thai  I  am  your  near  relation  and  can't  detach  myself 
from  that"  — 

"  Say  disgrace,  James,"  interposed  the  other  in  a  lovi 
voice,  finding  tliat  he  stammered  for  a  word.  "  You 
mean  it,  and  have  reason,  say  disgrace." 

"  From  that  disgrace,"  assented  his  brother,  with  keen 
emphasis,  "  but  is  the  fact  to  be  blurted  out  and  trump- 
eted, and  proclaimed  continually  in  the  presence  of  tho 
very  House  !  In  moments  of  confidence  too  ?  Do  you 
think  your  name  is  calculated  to  harmonize  in  this  place 
with  trust  and  confidence,  John  Carker?" 

"No,"  returned  the  other.  "No,  James.  God  knows 
I  have  no  such  thought." 

"  What  is  your  thought,  then  ?  "  said  his  brother,  "  and 
wliy  do  you  thrust  yourself  in  my  way?  Haven't  you 
injured  me  enough  already?" 

"  I  have  never  injured  you,  James,  wilfully." 

"  You  are  my  brother,"  said  the  manager.  "  That's 
injury  enough." 

"  I  wish  I  could  undo  it,  James.'' 

"I  wish  you  could  and  would." 

During  this  conversation,  Walter  had  looked  from  on« 
brother  to  the  other,  with  pain  and  amazement.  He 
who  was  the  senior  in  years,  and  junior  in  the  house, 
stood,  with  his  eyes  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  his  head 
bowed,  humbly  listening  to  the  reproaches  of  the  other. 
Though  these  were  rendered  very  bitter  by  the  tone  and 
look  with  which  they  were  accompanied,  and  by  the 
presenc^e  of  Walter  whom  they  so  much  surprised  and 
shocked,  he  entered  no  other  protest  against  them  than 
by  slightly  raising  his  right  hand  in  a  deprecatory  man- 
3er,  as  if  he  would  have  said  "  Spare  me ! "  So,  had 
ihey  been   blows,  and  he  a  brave  man,  under   .^trong 


260  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

constraint,  and  weakened  by  bodily  suffering,  he  might 
have  stood  before  the  executioner. 

Generous  and  quick  in  all  his  emotions,  and  regarding 
himself  as  the  innocent  occasion  of  these  taunts,  Walter 
now  struck  in,  with  all  the  earnestness  he  felt. 

"  Mr.  Carker,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  maa- 
ager.  "  Indeed,  indeed,  this  is  my  fault  solely.  In  a 
kind  of  heedlessness  for  which  I  cannot  blame  myself 
enough,  I  have,  I  have  no  doubt,  mentioned  Mr.  Carker 
the  junior  much  oftener  than  was  necessary ;  and  have 
allowed  his  name  sometimes  to  slip  through  my  lips, 
when  it  was  against  your  express  wish.  But  it  has  been 
my  own  mistake,  sir.  "We  have  never  exchanged  one 
word  upon  the  subject — very  few,  indeed,  on  any  sub- 
ject. And  it  has  not  been,"  added  Walter,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  "  all  heedlessness  on  my  part,  sir ;  for  I 
have  felt  an  interest  in  Mr.  Carker  ever  since  I  have 
been  here,  and  have  hardly  been  able  to  help  speaking 
of  him  sometimes,  when  I  have  thought  of  him  so 
much ! " 

Walter  said  this  from  his  soul,  and  with  the  very 
breath  of  honor.  For  he  looked  upon  the  bowed  head, 
and  the  downcast  eyes,  and  upraised  hand,  and  thought, 
•♦  I  have  felt  it ;  and  why  should  I  not  avow  it  in  behalf 
of  this  unfriended,  broken  man  !  " 

"In  truth  you  have  avoided  me,  Mr.  Carker,"  said 
Walter,  with  the  tears  rising  to  his  eyes ;  so  true  was 
bis  compassion,  "  I  know  it,  to  my  disappointment  and 
regret.  When  I  first  came  here,  and  ever  since,  I  ara 
sure  I  have  tried  to  be  as  much  your  friend  as  one  of 
mj  age  could  presume  to  be  ;  but  it  has  been  of  no  use." 

"  And  observe,"  said  the  manager,  taking  him  up 
quickly,  "  it  will  be  of  stiU  less  use,  Gay,  if  you  persisl 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  261 

in  forcing;  INIr.  John  Carker's  name  on  people's  atteiition 
That  is  not  the  way  to  befriend  Mr.  John  Carker.  Ask 
him  if  he  thinks  it  is." 

**  If  is  no  service  to  me,"  said  the  brother.  "  It  only 
leads  to  such  a  conversation  as  the  present,  which  I  need 
not  say  I  could  have  well  spared.  No  one  can  be  a  bet- 
ter friend  to  me : "  he  spoke  here  very  distinctly,  as  if 
he  would  impress  it  upon  Walter :  "  than  in  forgetting 
nie,  and  leaving  me  to  go  my  way,  unquestioned  and  un- 
noiiced." 

"  Your  memory  not  being  retentive,  Gay,  of  what  you 
are  told  by  others,"  said  Mr.  Cari<er  the  manager,  warm- 
ing himself  with  great  and  increased  satisfaction,  "  I 
thought  it  well  that  you  should  be  told  this  from  the 
best  authorit}',"  nodding  towards  his  brother.  "  You  are 
not  likely  to  forget  it  now,  I  hope.  That's  all,  Gay. 
You  can  go." 

Walter  passed  out  at  the  door,  and  was  about  to  close 
it  after  him,  wlien  hearing  the  voices  of  the  brothers 
again,  and  also  the  mention  of  his  own  name,  he  stood 
irresolutely,  with  his  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  the  door 
ajar,  uncertain  whether  to  return  or  go  away.  In  thia 
position  he  could  not  help  overhearing  what  followed. 

"  Think  of  me  more  leniently,  if  you  can,  James," 
said  John  Carker,  **  when  I  tell  you  I  have  had  —  hotr 
could  I  help  having,  with  ray  history,  written  here  "  — 
striking  himself  upon  the  breast,  "  my  whole  heart 
awakened  by  my  observation  of  that  boy,  Walter  Gray. 
I  saw  in  him  when  he  first  came  here,  almost  my  other 

Milf." 

"  Your  other  self! "   repeated  the  manager,  disdain- 
Hilly. 
'*  Not  as  I  a  n,  but  as  I  was  when  I  first  came  hew 


SJ62  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

loo;  as  sanguine,  giddy,  youthful,  inexperienced  ;  flushed 
with  the  same  restless  and  adventurous  fancies  ;  and  full 
of  the  same  quahties,  fraught  with  the  same  capacity  cf 
leading  on  to  good  or  evil." 

^  I  hope  not,"  said  his  brother,  with  some  hidden  and 
sarcastic  meaning  in  his  tone. 

**  You  strike  me  sharply ;  and  your  hand  is  steady, 
nnd  your  thrust  is  veiy  deep,"  returned  the  other,  speak- 
ing (or  so  Walter  thought)  as  if  some  cruel  weapon 
actually  stabbed  him  as  he  spoke.  "  I  imagined  all  this 
when  he  was  a  boy.  I  believed  it.  It  was  a  truth  to 
me.  1  saw  him  lightly  walking  on  the  edge  of  an  un- 
seen gulf  where  so  many  others  walk  with  equal  gayety, 
and  from  which  "  — 

"  The  old  excuse,"  interrupted  his  brother  as  he 
stirred  the  fire.  "  So  many.  Go  on.  Sa}',  so  many 
fall." 

"  From  which  OXE  traveller  fell,"  returned  the  other, 
"  who  set  forward,  on  his  way,  a  boy  like  him,  and  missed 
his  footing  more  and  more,  and  slipped  a  little  and  a  lit- 
tle lower,  and  went  on  stumbling  still,  until  he  fell  head- 
long, and  found  himself  below  a  shattered  man.  Think 
what  I  suffered  when  I  watched  that  boy." 

"  You  have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it,"  returned 
the  brother. 

"  Only  myself,"  he  assented  with  a  sigh.  "  I  don''t 
seek  to  divide  the  blame  or  shame." 

"You  have  divided  the  shame,"  James  Carker  mut- 
tered through  his  teeth.  And  through  so  many  and 
such  close  teeth,  he  could  mutter  well. 

"  Ah  James,"  returned  his  brother,  speaking  for  the 
Grst  time  in  an  accent  of  reproach,  and  seeming,  by  the 
9oui\d  of  his   voice,  to  have  covered  h's  face  with   hii 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  26S 

'land-.  '•  T  Iiave  been,  since  then,  a  useful  foil  to  you 
i'ou  have  trodden  on  me  freely,  in  your  climbing  U[x 
Don't  .«purn  me  with  your  heel !  " 

A  silence  ensued.  After  a  time,  INIr.  Carker  the  mnn- 
ftgcr  was  heard  rustling  among  his  papers,  as  if  he  had 
resolved  to  bring  the  interview  to  a  conclusion.  A)  the 
Kuno  time  his  brother  withdrew  nearer  to  the  door. 

"That's  all,"  he  said.  "I  watched  him  with  such 
trembling  and  such  fear,  as  was  some  little  punishment 
to  me,  until  he  passed  the  place  where  I  first  fell ;  and 
then,  though  I  had  been  his  father,  I  believe  I  never 
could  have  thanked  God  more  devoutly.  I  didn't  dare 
to  warn  him,  and  advise  him  ;  but  if  1  had  seen  direct 
caus^,  I  would  have  shown  hira  my  example.  I  was 
afraid  to  be  seen  speaking  with  him,  lest  it  should  b". 
thouglif  I  did  him  harm,  and  tempted  him  to  evil,  and 
corrupted  him  :  or  lest  I  really  should.  There  may  be 
such  contagion  in  me  ;  I  don't  know.  Piece  out  my  his- 
tory, in  connection  with  young  Walter  Gay,  and  what 
he  has  made  me  feel ;  and  think  of  me  more  leniently, 
James,  if  you  can." 

With  these  words  he  came  out  to  where  Walter  was 
standing.  He  turned  a  little  paler  when  he  saw  him 
there,  and  paler  yet  when  Walter  caught  him  by  the 
band,  and  said  in  a  whisper : 

"  Mr.  Carker,  pray  let  me  thank  you  !  Let  me  say 
how  much  I  feel  for  you !  How  sorry  I  am  to  have 
been  the  unhappy  cause  of  all  this !  How  I  almost  look 
upon  you  now  as  my  protector  and  guardian  !  How 
eery,  very  much,  I  feel  obliged  to  you  and  pity  you ! '' 
said  Walter,  squeezing  both  his  hands,  and  hardly  know- 
ing, in  his  agitation,  what  he  did  or  said- 
Mr.  Morfin's  room  being  close  at  hand  and  empty,  and 


264  DOMBET  AND  SOW. 

the  door  wide  open,  they  moved  thither  by  one  accord 
the  passage  being  seldom  free  from  some  one  passing  to 
or  fro.  TVIien  they  were  tliere,  and  Waher  saw  in  Mr. 
Carker's  face  some  traces  of  the  emotion  within,  he  al- 
most felt  as  if  he  had  never  seen  the  face  before  ;  it  was 
80  greatly  changed. 

"  Walter,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shouliler. 
*  I  am  far  removed  from  you,  and  may  I  ever  be.  Do 
j'ou  know  what  I  am  ?  " 

♦*  What  you  are  !  "  appeared  to  hang  on  Walter's  lips, 
ns  he  regarded  him  attentively. 

"  It  was  begun,"  said  Carker,  "  before  my  twenty-first 
birthday  —  led  up  to,  long  before,  but  not  begun  till 
near  that  time.  I  had  robbed  them  when  I  came  of  age. 
I  robbed  them  afterwards.  Before  my  twenty-second 
birthday,  it  was  all  found  out ;  and  then,  Walter,  from 
^  all  men's  society,  I  died." 

Again  his  last  few  words  hung  trembling  upon  Wal- 
ter's lips,  but  he  could  neither  utter  them,  nor  any  of  hia     . 
own.  /' 

"The  House  was  very  good  to  me.  May  Heaven  re- 
ward the  old  man  for  his  forbearance !  This  one,  too, 
his  son,  who  was  then  newly  in  tiie  firm,  where  I  had  * 
held  great  trust !  I  was  called  into  that  room  which  is 
now  his  —  I  have  never  entered  it  since  —  and  came  out 
— ^  what  you  know  me.  For  many  years  I  sat  in  my  pres- 
ent seat,  alone  as  now,  but  then  a  known  and  recognized 
example  to  the  rest.  They  were  all  merciful  to  me,  and 
I  lived.  Time  has  altered  that  part  of  my  })oor  expi- 
lUion  ;  and  I  think,  except  the  three  heads  of  the  House, 
^  there  is  no  one  here  who  knows  my  story  rightly.  Be- 
fore the  little  boy  grows  up,  and  lias  it  told  to  him,  ray 
corner  may  be  vacant.     I  would  rather  that  it  might  be 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  86^1 

BO !     This  is  the  only  change  to  me  since  that  day,  when 
I  left  all  youth,  and  hope,  and  good  men's  company,  be* 
hind  me  in  that  room.     God  bless  you,  Walter !     Keep 
you,  and   all  dear  to   you,  in   honesty,  or  strike  them    \ 
dead  !  " 

Some  recollection  of  his  trembling  from  head  to  foot 
as  if  with  excessive  cold,  and  of  his  bursting  into  tears  t 
was  all  that  Walter  could  add  to  this,  when  he  tried  to' 
recall  exactly  what  had  passed  between  them. 

When  Walter  saw  him  next,  he  was  bending  over  his 
desk,  in  his  old  silent,  drooping,  humbled  way.  Then, 
observing  him  at  his  work,  and  feeling  how  resolved  he 
evidently  was  that  no  further  intercourse  should  arise 
between  them,  and  thinking  again  and  again  on  all  he 
had  seen  and  heard  that  morning  in  so  short  a  time,  in 
connection  with  the  history  of  both  the  Carkers,  Walter 
could  liardly  believe  that  he  was  under  orders  for  the 
West  Indies,  and  would  soon  be  lost  to  Uncle  Sol,  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  and  to  glimpses  few  and  far  between  of 
Florence  Dombey  —  no,  he  meant  Paul  —  and  to  all  he 
loved,  and  liked,  and  looked  for,  in  his  daily  life. 

But  it  was  true,  and  the  news  had  already  penetrated 
to  the  outer  office  ;  for  while  he  sat  with  a  heavy  heart, 
pondering  on  these  things,  and  resting  his  head  upon  his 
arm,  Perch,  the  messenger,  descending  from  his  ma- 
hogany bracket,  and  jogging  his  elbow,  begged  his  par- 
don, but  wished  -to  say  in  his  ear.  Did  he  think  he  could 
arrange  to  send  home  to  England  a  jar  of  preserved 
ginger,  cheap,  for  Mrs.  Perch's  own  eating,  in  (he  course 
af  her  recovery  from  her  next  confinement  r 


26r  DOMB£T  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

TAIL  GROWS  MORE  AND  MORE  OI.D-FASIHOXED,  A^D  6<»ES 
HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS. 

M'niiN  the  ]\ridsummer  vacation  approached,  no  inde- 
cent manifestations  of  joy  were  exhibited  by  the  leaden- 
eyed  young  gentlemen  assembled  at  Doctor  Blimber's. 
Any  snch  violent  expression  as  "  breaking  up,"  would 
have  been  quite  inapplicable  to  that  polite  establishrarnt. 
The  young  gentlemen  oozed  away,  semiannually,  to 
their  own  homes ;  but  they  never  broke  up.  They 
would  have  scorned  the  action. 

Tozer,  who  was  constantly  galled  and  tormented  by  a 
Btarchetl  white  cambric  neckerchief,  which  he  wore  at 
the  express  desire  of  ]\[rs.  Tozer,  his  parent,  who,  de- 
signing him  for  the  Church,  was  of  opinion  that  he 
couldn't  be  in  that  forward  state  of  preparation  too  soon 
—  Tozer  said,  indeed,  that  choosing  between  two  evils, 
he  thought  he  would  rather  stay  where  he  was  than  go 
home.  However  inconsistent  this  declaration  might  ap- 
pear with  that  passage  in  Tozer's  Essay  on  the  subject, 
wherein  he  had  observed  "  that  the  thoughts  of  home 
and  all  its  recollections,  awakened  in  his  mind  the  most 
pleasing  emotions  of  anticipation  and  delight,"  and  had 
ftlso  likened  hiniself  to  a  Roman  general,  flushed  with  8 
recent  victory  over  the  Iceni,  or  laden  with  Carthaginian 
ispoil,  advancing  within  a  few  hours'  march  of  the  Capi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ^., 

tol,  presupposed,  for  the  purposes  of  th«;  simile,  to  be  the 
dwelling-place  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  still  it  was  very  sinceiBly 
made.  For  jt  seemed  that  Tozer  had  a  dreadful  uncle, 
who  not  only  volunteered  examinations  of  him,  in  the 
holidays,  on  abstruse  points,  but  twisted  innocent  events 
and  things,  and  wrenched  them  to  the  same  fell  purpose 
So  that  if  this  uncle  took  him  to  the  play,  or,  on  a  sinii 
lar  pnitence  of  kindness,  carried  him  to  see  a  giant,  or  a 
dwarf,  or  a  conjurer,  or  anything,  Tozer  knew  he  had 
read  up  some  classical  allusion  to  the  subject  beforehand, 
and  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  mortal  apprehension  :  not 
foi'eseeing  where  he  might  break  out,  or  what  authority 
he  might  not  quote  against  him. 

A-  to  Briggs,  his  father  made  no  show  of  artifice  about 
it.  He  never  would  leave  him  alone.  So  numerous  and 
severe  were  the  mental  trials  of  that  unfortunate  youth 
in  vacation  time,  that  the  friends  of  the  family  (then 
resident  near  Bayswater,  London)  seldom  approached 
the  ornamental  piece  of  water  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
without  a  vague  expectation  of  seeing  Master  Briggs's 
hat  floating  on  the  surface,  and  an  unfinished  exercise 
lying  on  the  bank.  Briggs,  therefore,  was  not  at  all 
sanguine  on  the  subject  of  holidays ;  and  these  two 
sharers  of  little  Paul's  bedroom  were  so  fliir  a  sample  of 
the  young  gentlemen  in  general,  that  the  most  elastic 
among  them  contemplated  the  arrival  of  those  festive 
periods  with  genteel  resignation. 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  little  Paul.  The  end  of 
these  first  holidays  was  to  witness  his  separation  from 
Florence,  but  who  ever  looked  forward  to  the  end  of 
holidays  whose  beginning  was  not  yet  come !  Not  Paul, 
assuredly.  As  the  happy  time  drew  near,  the  lions  and 
tigers  climbing  up  the  bedroom  walls,  became  ^uite  tame 


268  DOMBET  AND  SOS. 

and  frolicsome.  The  grim  sly  faces  in  the  squares  and 
diamonds  of  the  floor-cloth,  relaxed  and  peeped  out  at  liim 
with  less  wicked  eyes.  The  grave  old  clock  had  more  of 
personal  interest  in  the  tone  of  its  formal  inquiry ,  and 
the  restless  sea  went  rolling  on  all  night,  to  the  sound- 
ing of  a  melancholy  strain  —  yet  it  was  pleasant  too  — 
that  rose  and  fell  with  the  waves,  and  rocked  him.  as  it 
were,  to  sleep. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  seemed  to  think  that  he,  too,  would 
enjoy  the  holidays  very  much.  Mr.  Toots  projected  a 
life  of  holidays  from  that  time  forth  ;  for,  as  he  regularly 
informed  Paul  every  day,  it  was  his  "last  half"  at  Doc- 
tor Blimber's,  and  he  was  going  to  begin  to  come  into 
his  property  directly. 

It  was  perfectly  understood  between  Paul  and  Mr. 
Toots,  that  they  were  intimate  friends,  notwithstanding 
their  distance  in  point  of  years  and  station.  As  the 
vacation  approached,  and  Mr.  Toots  breathed  harder 
and  stared  oftener  in  Paul's  society,  than  he  had  done 
before,  Paul  knew  that  he  meant  he  was  sorry  they 
were  going  to  lose  sight  of  each  other,  and  felt  very 
much  obliged  to  him  for  his  patronage  and  good  opinion. 

It  was  even  understood  by  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs. 
Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  as  well  as  by  the  young 
gentlemen  in  general,  that  Toots  had  somehow  consti- 
tuted himself  protector  and  guardian  of  Dombey,  and 
the  circumstance  became  so  notorious,  even  to  Mrs. 
Pij^hin,  that  the  good  old  creature  cherished  feelings 
of  bitterness  and  jealousy  against  Toots ;  and,  in  the 
lanctuary  of  her  own  home,  repeatedly  denounced  him 
as  "a  chuckleheaded  noodle."  Whereas  the  innocent 
Toots  had  no  more  idea  of  awakening  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
nrath,  than  he  had  of  any  other  definite  possibility  or 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  269 

proposition.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  disposed  to  con* 
BJder  her  rather  a  remarkable  character,  with  many 
points  of  interest  about  her.  For  this  reason  he  smiled 
on  her  with  so  much  urbanity,  and  asked  her  how  she 
did,  so  often,  in  the  course  of  her  visits  to  little  Paul 
that  at  last  she  one  night  told  him  plainly,  she  wasn't 
used  to  it,  whatever  he  might  think  ;  and  she  could  not, 
and  she  would  not  bear  it,  either  from  himself  or  any 
other  puppy  then  existing :  at  which  unexpected  ac- 
knowledgment of  his  civilities,  Mr.  Toots  was  so  alarmed 
that  he  secreted  himself  in  a  retired  spot  until  she  had 
gone.  Nor  did  he  ever  again  face  the  doughty  Mrg. 
Pipchin,  under  Doctor  Blimber's  roof. 

They  were  within  two  or  three  weeks  of  the  holidays, 
when,  one  day,  Cornelia  Blimber  called  Paul  into  her 
room,  and  said,  "  Dombey,  I  am  going  to  send  home 
your  analysis." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Paul. 

"  You  know  what  1  mean,  do  you,  Dombey  ? "  in- 
quired Miss  Blimber,  looking  hard  at  him  through  the 
spectacles. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"  Dombey,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  1  begin  to 
be  afraid  you  are  a  sad  boy.  When  you  don't  know  the 
meaning  of  an  expression,  why  don't  you  seek  for  infoi- 
mation  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin  told  me  I  wasn't  to  ask  questions,"  lO- 
turned  Paul. 

"  I  must  beg  you  not  to  mention  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  me, 
on  any  account,  Dombey,"  returned  Miss  Blimber.  "1 
couldn't  think  of  allowing  it.  The  course  of  study  here, 
is  very  far  removed  from  anything  of  that  sort.  A  repe- 
tition of  such  allusions  would  make  it  necessary  for  roe 


SJ70  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  request  to  hear  without  a  mistake,  before  breakfast-  > 
time  to-mon-ow  morning,  from   Verhum  persoruJe  down 
to  simiUima  cygno^ 

"  I  didn't  mean,  ma'am,''  began  little  Paul. 

"  I  must  trouble  you  not  to  tell  me  that  you  didn't 
cacan,  if  you  please,  Dorabey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  who 
preserved  an  awful  politeness  in  her  admonition:-. 
"  That  is  a  line  of  argument,  I  couldn't  dream  of  per- 
mitting." 

Paul  felt  it  safest  to  say  nothing  at  all,  so  he  only 
looked  at  Miss  Blimber's  spectacles.  Miss  Blimber  hav- 
ing shaken  her  head  at  him  gravely,  referred  to  a  paper 
lying  before  her. 

" '  Analysis  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.'  If  my 
recollection  serves  me,"  said  Miss  Blimber  breaking  off, 
"  the  word  analysis  as  opposed  to  synthesis,  is  thus  de 
fined  by  Walker  '  The  resolution  of  an  object,  whether 
of  the  senses  or  of  the  intellect,  into  its  first  elements.' 
As  opposed  to  synthesis,  you  observe.  Now  you  know 
what  analysis  is,  Dombey." 

Dombey  didn't  seem  to  be  absolutely  blinded  by  the 
light  let  in  upon  his  intellect,  but  he  made  Miss  Blimber 
a  little  bow. 

"  '  Analysis '  resumed  Miss  Blunber,  casting  her  eye 
O'v  er  the  paper,  '  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.*  I 
find  that  the  natural  capacity  of  Dombey  is  extremely 
gtKMl ;  and  that  his  general  disposition  to  study  may  be 
siatetd  in  an  equal  ratio.  Thus,  taking  eight  as  our 
standard  and  highest  number,  I  find  these  qualities  in 
Dombey  stated  each  at  six  three-fourths  !  " 

Miss  Blimber  paused  to  see  how  Paul  received  this 
news.  Being  undecided  whether  six  three-fourths,  meant 
lix  pounds  fifteen,  or  sixpence  three  farthings,  or  six  fooJ 


DOMREY   AND   SON.  271 

three,  or  throe  quarters  past  six,  or  six  somethings  thai 
he  hadn't  learnt  jet,  with  three  unknown  something  elses 
over,  Fiiul  rubbed  liis  hands  and  looked  straight  at 
Miss  Blimber.  It  happened  to  answer  as  well  as 
anytliing  else  he  could  have  done  ;  and  Cornelia  pro- 
ceeded. 

"  '  Violence  two.  Selfishness  two.  Inclination  to  low 
company,  as  evinced  in  the  cane  of  a  person  named 
Gliibb,  originally  seven,  but  since  reduced.  Gentle- 
manly demeanor  four,  and  improving  with  advancing 
years.*  Now  what  I  particularly  wish  to  call  your  at- 
tention to,  Dombey,  is  the  general  observation  at  tho 
close  of  this  analysis." 

Paul  set  himself  to  follow  it  with  great  care. 

"'It  may  be  generally  observed  of  Dombey,'"  sail 
Miss  Blimber,  reading  in  a  loud  voice,  and  at  every 
second  word  directing  her  spectacles  towards  the  lit'tle 
figure  before  her:  "'that  his  abilities  and  inclinations 
are  good,  and  that  he  has  made  as  much  progress  as 
under  the  circumstances  could  have  been  expected. 
But  it  is  to  be  lamented  of  this  young  gentleman  that 
he  is  singular  (what  is  usually  termed  old-fashioned)  in 
his  character  and  conduct,  and  that,  without  presenting 
anything  in  either  which  distinctly  calls  for  reprobation, 
he  is  often  very  unlike  other  young  genth  men  of  his 
age  and  social  position.'  Now  Dombey,"  said  JVIiss 
Blimber,  laying  down  the  paper,  "  do  you  understand 
that  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"  This  analysis,  you  see,  Dombey,"  Miss  Blirahei 
continued,  "  is  going  to  be  sent  home  to  your  respected 
parent.  It  will  naturally  be  very  painful  to  him  to  find 
that  you  are  singular  in  your  character  and  conduct.     Il 


272  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Is  naturally  painful  to  us;  for  we  can't  like   you,  yoa 
know,  Dombey,  as  well  as  we  could  wish." 

She  touched  the  child  upon  a  tender  point.  He  had 
secretly  become  more  and  more  solicitous  from  day  to 
day,  as  the  time  of  his  departure  drew  more  near,  that 
all  the  house  should  like  him.  For  some  hidden  rea- 
son, very  imperfectly  understood  by  himself — if  under 
stood  at  all  —  he  felt  a  gradually  increasing  impulse  of 
affection,  towards  almost  everything  and  everybody  in 
the  place.  He  could  not  boar  to  think  that  they  would 
be  quite  iudifferent  to  him  when  he  was  gone.  He 
wanted  them  to  remember  him  kindly ;  and  he  had 
made  it  his  business  even  to  conciliate  a  great  hoarse 
shaggy  dog,  chained  up  at  the  back  of  the  house,  who 
had  previously  been  the  terror  of  his  life  :  that  even 
he  might  miss  him  when  he  was  no  longer  there. 

Little  thinking  that  in  this,  he  only  showed  again  the 
difference  between  himself  and  his  compeers,  poor  tiny 
Paul  set  it  forth  to  Miss  Bliraber  as  well  as  he  could, 
and  begged  her,  in  despite  of  the  official  analysis,  to 
have  the  goodness  to  try  and  like  him.  To  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber,  who  had  joined  them,  he  preferred  the  same  peti- 
tion :  and  when  that  lady  could  not  forbear,  even  in  his 
presence,  from  giving  utterance  to  her  often-repeated 
opinion,  that  he  was  an  odd  child,  Paul  told  her  that 
he  was  sure  she  was  quite  right ;  that  he  thought  it 
must*  be  his  bones,  but  he  didn't  know  ;  and  that  I  a 
hoped  she  would  overlook  it,  for  he  was  fond  of  ihtia 
all. 

"  Not  so  fond,"  said  Paul,  with  a  mixture  jf  timid- 
ity and  perfect  frankness,  which  was  one  of  the  most 
peculiar  and  most  engaging  qualities  of  the  ciiiid, 
*  not  so   fond   as   I  am  of  Floreuv^e,  of  course ;    that 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  t/» 

ixAild  iievei  be  You  couldn't  expect  that,  could  you 
ma'ara?" 

"  Oh  !  the  old-fashioned  little  scul ! "  cried  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber,  in  a  whisper. 

"  But  1  like  everybody  here  very  much,"  pursued 
Paul,  "  and  I  should  grieve  to  go  away,  and  think  tha 
any  one  was  glad  that  I  was  gone,  or  didn't  care." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  now  quite  sure  tiiat  Paul  was  the 
oddest  child  in  the  world ;  and  when  she  told  the  doctor, 
what  had  passed,  the  doctor  did  not  controvert  his  wife'd 
opinion.  But  he  said,  as  he  had  said  before,  when  Paul 
fii-st  came,  that  study  would  do  much  ;  and  he  also  said, 
OS  he  had  said  on  that  occasion,  "  Bring  him  on,  Cor- 
nelia !     Bring  him  on  !  " 

Cornelia  had  always  brought  him  on  as  vigorously 
as  siie  could  ;  and  Paul  had  had  a  hard  life  of  it.  Bui 
over  and  above  the  getting  through  his  tasks,  he  had 
long  had  another  purpose  always  present  to  him,  and 
to  which  lie  still  held  fast.  It  was,  to  be  a  gentle,  use- 
ful, quiet  little  fellow,  always  striving  to  secure  the  love 
and  attachment  of  the  rest;  and  though  he  was  yet 
often  to  be  seen  at  his  old  post  on  the  stairs,  or  watch- 
ing the  waves  and  clouds  from  his  solitary  window,  he 
was  oftener  found,  too,  among  the  other  boys,  modestly 
rendering  them  some  little  voluntary  service.  Thus  it 
came  to  pass,  that  even  among  those  rigid  and  absorbed 
young  anchorites,  who  mortified  themselves  beneath  the 
loof  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Paul  was  an  object  of  general 
interest ;  a  fragile  little  plaything  that  they  all  liked,  and 
that  no  one  would  have  thought  of  treating  roughly.  But 
te  could  not  change  his  nature  or  rewrite  the  analysis , 
and  so  they  all  agreed  that  Dombey  was  old-fashioned. 

There  were  some  immunities,  however,  attaching  to 

VOL.  I.  18 


274  DOMBFY  AND  SOST. 

the  clinracter  enjoyed  by  no  one  else.  They  coald  Iiave 
better  spared  a  newer-fashioned  child,  and  that  alone 
was  much.  When  the  others  only  bowed  to  Doctor 
Blimber  and  family  on  retiring  for  the  night,  Paul 
would  stretch  out  his  morsel  of  a  hand,  and  boldly  i?lvike 
the  Doctor's ;  also  Mrs.  Bliraber's  ;  also  Cornelia's.  If 
anybody  was  to  be  begged  off  from  impending  punish- 
ment, Paul  was  always  the  delegate.  The  wcalc'Cyed 
young  man  himself  had  once  consulted  him,  in  reference 
to  a  little  breakage  of  glass  and  china.  And  it  was 
darkly  rumored  that  the  butler,  regarding  him  with  fa- 
vor such  as  that  stern  man  had  never  shown  before  to 
mortal  boy,  had  sometimes  mingled  porter  with  his  table- 
l-eer  to  make  him  strong. 

Over  and  above  these  extensive  privileges,  Paul  had 
free  right  of  entry  to  Mr.  Feeder's  room,  from  which 
apartment  he  had  twice  led  Mr.  Toots  into  the  open  air 
in  a  state  of  faintness,  consequent  on  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  smoke  a  very  blunt  cigar :  one  of  a  bundle 
which  that  young  gentleman  had  covertly  purchased  on 
the  shingle  from  a  most  desperate  smuggler,  who  had 
acknowledged,  in  confidence,  that  two  hundred  pounds 
was.  the  price  set  upon  his  head,  dead  or  alive,  by  the 
Custom  House.  It  was  a  snug  room,  Mr.  Feeder's, 
with  his  bed  in  another  little  room  inside  of  it ;  and  a 
lute,  which  Mr.  Feeder  couldn't  play  yet,  but  was  going 
to  make  a  point  of  learning,  he  said,  hanging  up  over 
the  fireplace.  There  were  some  books  in  if,  too,  and  a 
fishing-rod ;  for  ]\Ir.  Feeder  said  he  should  certainly 
make  a  point  of  learning  to  fish,  when  he  could  find 
time.  Mr.  Feeder  had  amassed,  with  similar  intentions, 
a  beautiful  little  curly  second-hand  key-bugle,  a  chesS" 
board  aud  men,  a  Spanish  Grammar,  a  set  of  sketching 


OOMBET  AND  SON.  21# 

materials,  ai.d  a  pair  of  boxing-gloves.  The  art  of 
Belf-defence  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  should  undoubtedly  make 
a  point  of  learning,  as  he  considered  it  the  duty  of  every 
man  to  do  ;  for  it  might  lead  to  the  protection  of  a  fe- 
male in  distress. 

But  Mr.  Feeder's  great  possession  was  a  large  grce: 
jar  of  snuff,  which  Mr.  Toots  had  brought  down  as  a 
present,  at  the  close  of  the  last  vacation  ;  and  for  which 
be  had  paid  a  high  price,  as  having  been  the  genuine 
property  of  the  Prince  Regent.  Neither  Mr.  Toots  nor 
Mr.  Feeder  could  partake  of  this  or  any  other  snuff, 
even  in  the  most  stinted  and  moderate  degree,  without 
being  seized  with  convulsions  of  sneezing.  Neverthe- 
less it  was  their  great  delight  to  moisten  a  box-full  wiih 
cold  tea,  stir  it  up  on  a  piece  of  parchment  with  a  pa- 
per-knife, and  devote  themselves  to  its  consumption  tiieu 
and  there.  In  the  course  of  which  cramming  of  their 
*noses,  they  endured  surprising  torments  with  the  con- 
stancy of  martyrs  :  and  drinking  table-beer  at  intervals, 
felt  all  the  glories  of  dissipation. 

To  little  Paul  sitting  silent  in  their  company,  and  by 
the  side  of  his  chief  patron,  Mr.  Toots,  there  was  a 
dread  charm  in  these  reckless  occasions ;  and  when  Mr. 
Feeder  spoke  of  the  dark  mysteries  of  London,  and 
told  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  going  to  observe  it  himself 
closely  in  all  its  ramifications  in  the  approaching  holi- 
days, and  for  that  purpose  had  made  arrangements  to 
board  with  two  old  maiden  ladies  at  Peckham,  Paul 
regarded  him  as  if  he  were  the  hero  of  some  look  of 
travels  or  wild  adventure,  and  was  almost  afraid  of  «ucU 
a  slashing  person. 

Going  into  this  room  one  evening,  when  the  holidaya 
were  very  near,  Paul  found  Mr.  Feeder  filling  up  the 


frs 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


blanks  in  some  printed  letters,  while  some  others,  already 
filled  up  and  strewn  before  him,  were  being  folded  and 
sealed  bj  Mr.  Toots.  Mr.  Feeder  said,  "  Aha,  Dombey, 
there  you  are,  are  you  ?  "  —  for  they  were  always  kind 
to  him,  and  glad  to  see  him  —  and  then  said,  tossing  one 
jf  the  letters  towards  him,  "  And  tJiere  you  are,  loo 
Dombey.     That's  yours." 

"  Mine,  sir  ?  "  said  Paul. 

"  Your  invitation,"  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

Paul,  looking  at  it,  found,  in  copperplate  print,  with 
the  exception  of  his  own  name  and  the  date,  which  were 
in  Mr.  Feeder's  penmanship,  that  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Blimber  requested  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  P.  Dombey'a 
company  at  an  early  party  on  Wednesday  evening  the 
seventeenth  instant ;  and  that  the  hour  was  half-past 
seven  o'clock  ;  and  that  the  object  was  quadrilles.  Mr. 
Toots  also  showed  him,  by  holding  up  a  companion  sheet 
of  paper,  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  requested  the' 
pleasure  of  Mr.  Toots's  company  at  an  early  party  on 
Wednesday  evening  the  seventeenth  instant,  when  the 
hour  was  half-past  seven  o'clock,  and  when  the  object 
was  quadrilles.  He  also  found,  on  glancing  at  the  table 
where  Mr.  Feeder  sat,  that  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Briggs's 
company,  and  of  Mr.  Tozer's  company,  and  of  every 
young  gentleman's  company,  was  requested  by  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  same  genteel  occasion. 

Mr.  Feeder  then  told  him,  to  his  great  joy,  that  his 
pister  was  invited,  and  that  it  was  a  half-yearly  event, 
and  that,  as  the  holidays  began  that  day,  he  could  go 
away  with  his  sister  after  the  party,  if  he  liked,  which 
Paul  interrupted  him  to  say  he  would  like,  very  much. 
Mr.  Feeder  then  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  would 
^«  expected  to  inform  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  in  so 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  277 

perfine  small-hand,  that  Mr.  P.  Dombey  would  be  happy 
to  have  the  honor  of  waiting  on  them,  in  accordance 
with  their  polite  invitation.  Lastly,  Mr.  Feeder  said, 
he  had  better  not  refer  to  the  festive  occasion,  in  the 
hearing  of  Doctor  and  Mrs,  Blimber ;  as  these  prelimi- 
naries, and  the  whole  of  the  arrangements,  were  con- 
ducted on  principles  of  classicality  and  high  breeding  ; 
and  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  young  gentlemen  on  the  other,  were  supposed,  in 
their  scholastic  capacities,  not  to  have  the  least  idea 
of  what  was  in  the  wind. 

Paul  thanked  Mr.  Feeder  for  these  hints,  and  pocket- 
ing his  invitation,  sat  down  on  a  stool  by  the  side  of 
Mr.  Toots  as  usual.  But  Paul's  head,  which  had  long 
been  ailing  more  or  less,  and  was  sometimes  very  heavy 
and  painful,  felt  so  uneasy  that  night,  that  he  was  obliged 
to  support  it  on  his  hand.  And  yet  it  drooped  so,  that 
by  little  and  httle  it  sunk  on  Mr.  Toots's  knee,  and 
rested  there,  as  if  it  had  no  care  to  be  ever  lifted  up 
again. 

That  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  deaf;  but  he 
must  have  been,  he  thought,  for,  by  and  by,  he  heard 
Mr.  Feeder  calling  in  his  ear,  and  gently  shaking  him  to 
rouse  his  attention.  And  when  he  raised  his  head,  quite 
scared,  and  looked  about  him,  he  found  that  Doctor 
IMiraber  had  come  into  the  room  ;  and  that  the  window 
was  open,  and  that  his  forehead  was  wet  with  sprinkled 
water ;  though  how  all  this  had  been  done  without  his 
knowledge,  was  very  curious  indeed. 

"  Ah  !  Come,  come  !  That's  well !  How  is  my  h- 
llo  friend  now?"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  encouragingly. 

"  Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul, 

But  there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter  with  tV 


278  DOMBEY  AND  SJN. 

Boor,  for  he  couldn't  stand  upon  it  steadily  ;  and  with  th* 
walls  too,  for  they  were  inclined  to  turn  round  and 
round,  and  could  only  be  stopped  by  being  looked  at 
very  hard  indeed.  Mr.  Toots's  head  had  the  appearance 
or  being  at  one",  bigger  and  farther  off  than  was  quite 
natural ;  and  when  he  took  Paul  in  his  arms,  to  carry 
him  up-stairs,  Paul  observed  with  astonishment  that  the 
door  was  in  quite  a  different  place  from  that  in  which 
he  had  expected  to  find  it,  and  almost  thought,  at  first, 
that  Mr.  Toots  was  going  to  walk  straight  up  the  chim- 
ney. 

It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Toots  to  caiTy  hira  to  the  top 
of  the  house  so  tenderly  ;  and  Paul  told  him  that  it  was. 
But  Mr.  Toots  said  he  would  do  a  great  deal  more  than 
that,  if  he  could  ;  and  indeed  he  did  more  as  it  was ; 
for  he  helped  Paul  to  undress,  and  helped  him  to  bed,  in 
the  kindest  manner  possible,  and  then  sat  down  by  the 
bedside  and  chuckled  very  much  ;  while  Mr.  Feeder, 
B.  A.,  leaning  over  the  bottom  of  the  bedstead,  set  all 
the  little  bristles  on  his  head  bolt  upright  with  his  bony 
hands,  and  then  made  believe  to  spar  at  Paul  with  great 
science,  on  account  of  his  being  all  right  again,  which 
was  so  uncommonly  facetious,  and  kird  too  in  Mr. 
Feeder,  that  Paul,  not  being  able  to  make  up  his  mind 
whether  it  was  best  to  lau2:h  or  cry  at  hiiu,  did  both  at 
once. 

How  Mr.  Toots  melted  away,  and  Mr,  Feeder  changcsd 
into  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Paul  never  thought  of  asking  ; 
r.either  was  he  at  all  curious  to  know  ;  but  when  he 
saw  Mrs.  Pipchin  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed  in- 
step of  Mr.  Feeder,  he  cried  out,  "  Mrs.  Pipchin,  don't 
toll  Florence  ! " 

"  Don't  tell  Florence  what,  my  little  Paul  ?  "  said  Mrs 


DOMBEY  AND   SoN  279 

Pipciiiii,  coining  round  to  the  bedside,  and  sitting  down 
in  the  chair. 

"About  me,"  said  Paul. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  mean  to  do  when  I  grow  up 
Mrs.  Pipcliin  ?"  inquired  Paul,  turning  his  face  towaida 
her  on  bis  pillow,  and  resting  his  chin  wistfully  on  his 
folded  hands. 

JSlrs.  Pipchin  couldn't  guess. 

"  1  mean,"  said  Paul,  "  to  put  my  money  all  together 
In  one  Bank,  never  try  to  get  any  more,  go  away  into 
the  country  with  my  darling  Florence,  have  a  beautiful 
garden,  fields,  and  woods,  and  live  there  witji  her  all  my 
life  ! " 

"  Indeed  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul.  "  That's  what  I  mean  to  do,  when 
I  " — .     He  stopped,  and  pondered  for  a  moment. 

Mrs.  Pipchin"s  gray  eye  scanned  his  thoughtful  face. 

"  If  I  grow  up,"  said  PauL  Then  he  went  on  imme- 
diately to  tell  Mrs.  Pipchin  all  about  the  party,  about 
Florence's  invitation,  about  the  pride  he  would  have  in 
the  admiration  that  would  be  felt  for  her  by  all  the  boys, 
about  their  being  so  kind  to  him  and  fond  of  him,  about 
hio  being  so  fond  of  them,  and  about  his  being  so  glad 
of  it.  Then  he  told  Mrs.  Pipchin  about  the  analysis, 
*nd  about  his  being  certainly  old-fashioned,  and  took 
Alls.  Pipchin's  opinion  on  that  point,  and  whether  she 
knew  why  it  was,  and  what  it  meant.  Mrs.  Pi|»chi« 
denied  tl-e  fact  allogether,  as  the  shortest  way  of  getting 
out  of  the  difficulty  ;  but  Paul  was  far  from  satisfied 
with  that  reply,  and  looked  so  searchingly  at  Mi-s.  Pip- 
chin for  a  truer  answer,  that  she  was  obliged  to  get  up 
and  lock  out  of  the  window  to  avoid  his  eyes. 


880  DOlVrBEY   AND   SON. 

There  was  a  certain  calm  apothecary,  wlio  attended  at 
the  establishment  when  any  of  the  young  gentlemen 
were  ill,  and  somehow  he  got  into  the  room  and  appeared 
nt  the  bedside,  witL  Mrs.  Blimber.  How  they  came 
here,  or  how  long  they  had  been  there,  Paul  didn't 
know ;  but  when  he  saw  them,  he  sat  up  in  bed,  and 
answered  all  the  apothecary's  questions  at  full  length, 
and  whispered  to  him  that  Florence  was  not  to  know 
anything  about  it  if  he  pleased,  and  that  he  had  set  his 
mind  upon  her  coming  to  the  party.  He  was  very  chat- 
ty with  the  apothecary,  and  they  parted  excellent  friends. 
Lying  down  again  with  his  eye^  shut,  he  heard  the 
apothecary  say,  out  of  the  room  and  quite  a  long  way 
off — or  he  dreamed  it  —  that  there  was  a  want  of  vital 
power  (what  was  that,  Paul  wondered  !)  and  great  con- 
stitutional weakness.  That  as  the  little  fellow  had  set 
his  heart  on  parting  with  his  schoolmates  on  the  seven- 
teenth, it  would  be  better  to  indulge  the  fancy  if  lie  grew 
no  worse.  That  he  was  glad  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Pipchin 
that  tlie  little  fellow  would  go  to  his  friends  in  London 
on  the  eighteenth.  That  he  would  write  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  when  he  should  have  gained  a  better  knowledge  of 
the  case,  and  before  that  day.  That  there  was  no  im- 
mediate cause  for —  what?  Paul  lost  that  word.  And 
that  the  little  fellow  had  a  fine  mind,  but  was  an  old- 
X  fashioned  boy. 

What  old  fashion  could  that  be,  Paul  wondered  with 
a  pjilpitating  heart,  that  was  so  visibly  expressed  in  him ; 
Bc  i>lainly  seen  by  so  many  people ! 

He  could  neither  make  it  out,  nor  trouble  hims6lf  long 
with  the  effort.  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  again  beside  him,  if 
she  had  ever  been  away  (he  thought  she  had  gone  out 
with  the  doctor,  but  it  was   all  a  dream  perhaps),  and 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  281 

presently  a  bottle  and  glass  got  info  her  hands  magically, 
and  she  poured  out  the  contents  for  him.  After  that,  he 
had  some  real  good  jelly,  which  Mrs.  Blimber  brought  to 
him  herself;  and  then  he  was  so  well,  that  Mrs.  Pipchin 
went  home,  at  his  urgent  solicitation,  and  Briggs  and 
Tozer  came  to  bed.  Poor  Briggs  grumbled  teriiblj 
about  his  own  analysis,  which  could  hardly  have  discom* 
posed  him  more  if  it  had  been  a  chemical  process ;  but 
he  was  very  good  to  Paul,  and  so  was  Tozer,  and  so 
were  all  the  rest,  for  they  every  one  looked  in  before 
going  to  bed,  and  said,  "  How  are  you  now,  Dombey  ?  " 
"  Cheer  up,  little  Dombey  !  "  and  so  forth.  After  Briggs 
had  got  into  bed,  he  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  still 
bemoaning  his  analysis,  and  saying  he  knew  it  was  all 
wrong,  and  they  couldn't  have  analyzed  a  murderei 
worse,  and  how  would  Doctor  Blimber  like  it  if  hi3 
pocket-money  depended  on  it  ?  It  was  very  easy,  Briggs 
said,  to  make  a  galley-slave  of  a  boy  all  the  half-year, 
and  then  score  him  up  idle  ;  and  to  crib  two  dinners  a- 
week  out  of  his  board,  and  then  score  him  up  greedy ; 
but  that  wasn't  going  to  be  submitted  to,  he  believed, 
was  it  ?     Oh !  Ah  ! 

Before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  performed  on  the 
gong  next  morning,  he  came  up-stairs  to  Paul  and  told 
him  he  was  to  lie  still,  which  Paul  very  gladly  did. 
Mrs.  Pipchin  reappeared  a  little  before  the  apothecary, 
and  a  little  after  the  good  young  woman  whom  Paul  had 
seen  cleaning  the  stove  on  that  first  morning  (how  long 
ago  it  seemed  now  !)  had  brought  him  his  breakfast 
There  was  another  consultation  a  long  way  off,  or  else 
Paul  dreamed  it  again ;  and  then  the  apothecary,  com- 
'ng  back  with  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  said  : 

"  Yes,  I  think.  Doctor  Blimber,  we  may  release  thii 


282  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

fuung  gentloman  from  his  books  just  now;  the  vacatloB 
being  so  very  near  at  hand." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Doctor  Blimber.  "  My  love, 
you   will  inform  Cornelia,  if  you  please.** 

"  Assuredly,"  said  Mi's.  Blimber. 

The  apothecary  bending  down,  looked  closely  into 
PauTs  eyes,  and  felt  his  head,  and  his  pulse,  and  his 
heart,  with  so  much  interest  and  care,  that  Paul  said, 
"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Our  little  friend,"  observed  Doctor  Blimber,  "  haa 
never  complained." 

"  Oh  no !  "  replied  the  apothecary.  "  He  was  not 
likely  to  complain." 

"  You  find  him  greatly  better  ?  "  said  Doctor  Blimber. 

"  Oh  !  He  is  greatly  better,  sir,"  I'eturned  the  apoth- 
ecary. 

Paul  had  begun  to  speculate,  in  his  own  odd  way,  on 
'  he  subject  that  might  occupy  the  apothecary's  mind  just 
at  that  moment ;  so  musingly  had  he  answered  the  two 
questions  of  Doctor  Blimber.  But  the  apothecary  hap- 
pening to  meet  his  little  patient's  ejes,  as  the  latter  set 
off  on  that  mental  expedition,  and  coming  instantly  out 
of  his  abstraction  with  a  cheerful  smile,  Paul  smiled  in 
return  and  abandoned  it. 

He  lay  in  bed  all  that  day,  dozing  and  dreaming,  and 
looking  at  Mr.  Toots  ;  but  got  up  on  the  next,  and  went 
down-stairs.  Lo  and  behold,  there  was  something  the 
V  matti^r  with  the  great  clock ;  and  a  workman  on  a  pair 
of  steps  had  taken  its  face  off,  and  was  poking  instru 
ments  into  the  works  by  the  light  of  a  candle !  Thi.-^ 
was  a  great  event  for  Paul,  who  sat  down  on  the  bottom 
Btair,  and  watched  the  operation  attentively :  now  and 
Uien  glancing  at  the  clock  face,  leaning  all  askew,  againsi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  288 

the  wall  hard  by,  and  feeling  a  little  confuaed  by  a  8U8« 
picion  ihat  it  was  ogling  him. 

Tlie  workman  on  the  steps  was  very  civil ;  and  as  he 
Baid,  when  he  observed  Paul,  "How  do  you  do,  sir?" 
Paul  got  into  conversation  with  him,,  and  told  him  he 
hadn't  been  quite  well  lately.  The  ice  being  thus 
broken,  Paul  asked  him  a  multitude  of  questions  about 
chimes  and  clocks :  as,  whether  people  watched  up  in 
the  lonely  church  steeples  by  night  to  make  them  strike, 
and  how  the  bells  were  rung  when  people  died,  and 
whether  those  were  different  bells  from  wedding  bells, 
or  only  sounded  dismal  in  the  fancies  of  the  living. 
Finding  that  his  new  acquaintance  was  not  very  well  in- 
formed on  the  subject  of  the  curfew  bell  of  ancient  days, 
Paul  gave  him  an  account  of  that  institution  ;  and  also 
asked  him  as  a  practical  man,  what  he  thought  about 
King  Alfred's  idea  of  measuring  time  by  the  burning  of 
candles ;  to  which  the  workman  replied,  that  he  thought 
it  would  be  tiie  ruin  of  the  clock  trade  if  it  was  to  come 
up  again.  In  fine,  Paul  looked  on,  until  the  clock  had 
quite  recovered  its  familiar  aspect,  and  resumed  its 
sedate  inquiry  ;  when  the  workman,  putting  away  his 
tools  in  a  long  basket,  bade  him  good-day,  and  went 
away.  Though  not  before  he  had  whispered  something, 
on  the  door-mat,  to  the  footman,  in  which  there  was  thp 
phrase  "  old-fashioned  "  —  for  Paul  heard  it. 

What  could  that  old  fashion  be,  that  seemed  to  moke 
(he  people  sorry  !     What  could  it  be ! 

Having  nothing  to  learn  now,  he  thought  of  this  fre- 
quently ;  though  not  so  often  as  he  might  have  done,  if 
be  had  had  fewer  things  to  think  of.  But  he  had  a 
great  many  ;  and  was  always  thinking,  all  day  long. 

First,  there  was  Florence  coming  to  Ihe  party      Flor 


284  DOMBEY  Am)  SON. 

ence  would  see  that  the  boys  were  fond  of  him ;  and 
that  would  make  her  happy.  This  was  his  great  theme. 
Let  Florence  once  be  sure  that  they  were  gentle  and 
good  to  him,  and  that  ho  had  become  a  little  favorite 
among  them,  and  then  she  would  always  think  of  the 
time  he  had  passed  there,  without  being  very  sorry. 
Florence  might  be  all  the  happier  too  for  that,  perha|)a, 
when  he  came  back. 

"When  he  came  back  !  Fifty  tim^s  a-day,  his  noiselew 
little  feet  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  room,  as  he  col- 
lected every  book,  and  scrap,  and  trifle  that  belonged  to 
him,  and  put  them  all  together  there,  down  to  the  minut- 
est thing,  for  taking  home  !  There  was  no  shade  of 
coming  back  on  little  Paul ;  no  preparation  for  it,  or 
other  reference  to  it,  grew  out  of  anything  he  thought 
or  did,  except  this  slight  one  in  connection  with  his 
sister.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  to  think  of  everything 
familiar  to  him,  in  his  contemplative  moods  and  in  his 
wanderings  about  the  house,  as  being  to  be  parted  with  ; 
and  hence  the  many  things  he  had  to  think  of,  all  day 
long. 

He  had  to  peep  into  those  rooms  up-stairs,  and  think 
how  solitary  they  would  be  when  he  was  gone,  and  won- 
der through  how  many  silent  days,  weeks,  months,  and 
years,  they  would  continue  just  as  grave  and  undisturbed- 
IIs  had  to  think  —  would  any  other  child  (old-fashioned, 
like  himself)  stray  there  at  any  time,  to  whom  the  same 
grotisque  distortions  of  pattern  and  furniture  would 
omnifest  themselves ;  and  would  anybody  tell  that  boy 
of  little  Dombey,  who  had  been  there  once. 

He  had  to  think  of  a  portrait  on  the  stairs,  which 
ilways  looked  earnestly  after  him  as  he  went  away, 
tying  it  over  his  shoulder ;  and  which,  when  he  passed 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  t8l 

it  in  tile  company  of  any  one,  still  seemed  to  gaz^  at 
him,  and  not  at  liis  companion.  He  had  much  to  think 
of,  in  association  with  a  print  that  hung  up  in  another 
place,  where,  in  the  centre  of  a  wondering  group,  one 
figure  that  he  knew,  a  figure  with  a  light  about  its  head 
—  benignant,  mild,  and  merciful  —  stood  pointing  up- 
ward. 

At  his  own  bedroom  window,  there  were  crowds  of 
thoughts  that  mixed  with  these,  and  came  on,  one  u|,on 
another,  one  upon  another,  like  the  rolling  waves. 
Where  those  wild  birds  lived,  that  were  always  hover- 
ing out  at  sea  in  troubled  weather ;  where  the  clouds 
rose,  and  first  began  ;  whence  the  wind  issued  on  its 
rushing  flight,  and  where  it  stopped ;  whether  the  spot 
where  he  and  Florence  had  so  often  sat,  and  watched, 
and  talked  about  these  things,  could  ever  be  exactly  as 
it  used  to  be  without  them ;  whether  it  could  ever  be 
the  same  to  Florence,  if  he  were  in  some  distant  place, 
and  she  were  sitting  there  alone. 

He  had  to  think,  too,  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  Mr.  Feeder, 
B.  A. ;  of  all  the  boys  ;  and  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs. 
Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber ;  of  home,  and  of  his  aunt 
and  Miss  Tox  ;  of  his  father,  Dombey  and  Son,  Walter 
with  the  poor  old  uncle  who  had  got  the  money  ho 
wanted,  and  that  gruff-voiced  captain  with  the  iron  hand. 
Besides  all  this,  he  had  a  number  of  little  visits  to  pay, 
in  the  course  of  the  day ;  to  the  school-room,  to  Doctor 
Blimbcr's  study,  to  Mrs.  Bliraber's  private  apartment,  to 
Miss  Blimber's,  and  to  the  dog.  For  he  was  free  of  the 
whole  house  now,  to  range  it  as  he  chose  ;  and,  in  his 
desire  to  part  with  everybody  on  affectionate  terras  he 
attended,  in  his  way,  to  then)  all.  Sometimes  he  found 
places  in  books  for  Briggs,  who  was  always  losing  them  5 


286  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

sometimes  be  looked  up  words  in  dictiouanes  for  othei 
young  gentlemen  who  were  in  extremity  ;  sometimes  he 
held  skeins  of  silk  for  Mrs.  Blimber  to  wind :  sometimea 
he  put  Cornelia's  desk  to  rights ;  sometimes  he  would 
even  creep  into  the  doctor's  study,  and,  sitting  on  ths 
carpet  near  his  learned  feet,  turn  the  globes  softly,  and 
go  round  the  world,  or  take  a  flight  among  the  far-off 
Stars. 

In  those  days  immediately  before  the  holidays,  io 
tibort,  when  the  other  young  gentlemen  were  laboring 
for  dear  life  through  a  general  resumption  of  the 
studies  of  the  whole  half-year,  Paul  was  such  a  privi- 
leged pupil  as  had  never  been  seen  in  that  house  before. 
He  could  hardly  believe  it  himself;  but  his  libeity  lasted 
from  hour  to  hour,  and  from  day  to  day ;  and  little  Dora- 
bey  was  caressed  by  every  one.  Doctor  Blimber  was 
so  particular  about  him,  that  he  requested  Johnson  to 
retire  from  the  dinner-table  one  day,  for  having  thought- 
lessly spoken  to  him  as  "  poor  little  Dombey ; "  which 
Paul  thought  rather  hard  and  severe,  though  he  had 
flushed  at  the  moment,  and  wondered  why  Jolmsou 
should  pity  him.  It  was  the  more  questionable  justice, 
Paul  thought,  in  the  doctor,  from  his  having  certainly 
overheard  that  great  authority  give  his  assent  on  the 
.previous  evening,  to  the  proposition  (stated  by  MrSi 
Blimber)  that  poor  dear  little  Dombey  was  more  old* 
fashioned  than  ever.  And  now  it  was  that  Paul  began 
to  think  it  must  surely  be  old-fashioned  to  be  very  thin, 
and  light,  and  easily  tired,  and  soon  disposed  to  I!e  down 
anywhere  and  rest ;  for  he  couldn't  help  feeling  thst 
Iheso  were  more  and  more  his  habits  every  day. 

At  last  the  party-day  arrived  ;  and  Doctor  Blimber 
(aid    at   breakfast,   "  Gentlemen,   we    will    resume   our 


DOMBEY   AJfD  SON.  f^ 

Studies  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month."  Mr.  Toots 
immediately  threw  off  his  allegiance,  and  put  on  his 
ring :  and  mentioning  the  doctor  in  casual  conversation 
shortly  afterwards,  spoke  of  him  as  "  Blimher  !  "  This 
HCt  of  freedom  inspired  the  older  pupils  with  admiration 
und  envy  ;  but  the  younger  spirits  were  appalled,  and 
geerned  to  marvel  that  no  beam  fell  down  and  cru.hed 
iiim. 

Na'  th?  least  allusion  was  made  to  the  ceremonies 
o(  the  evening,  either  at  breakfast  or  at  dinner;  but 
there  was  a  bustle  in  the  house  all  day,  and  in  the 
course  of  his  [Perambulations,  Paul  made  acquaintance 
with  various  strange  benches  and  candlesticks,  and  met 
a  harp  in  a  grecm  great-coat  standing  on  the  landing 
outside  tlu'.  drawing-room  door.  There  was  something 
queer,  too,  about  Mrs.  Blimber's  head  at  diimer-tinie, 
as  if  she  had  screwed  her  hair  up  too  tight;  and  thougii 
Miss  Blimber  showed  a  graceful  bunch  of  plaited  hair 
on  each  temple,  she  seemed  to  have  her  own  little  curls 
it)  paper  underneath,  and  in  a  playbill  too;  for  Paul 
read  "•Theatre  Royal"  over  one  of  her  sparkling  spec- 
tacles, and  "  Brighton  "  over  the  other. 

There  was  a  grand  array  of  white  waistcoats  and 
cravats  in  the  young  gentlemen's  bedrooms  as  evening 
approached ;  and  such  a  smell  of  singed  hair,  that  Doc- 
tor Blimber  sent  u{)  the  footman  with  his  compliments, 
and  wished  to  know  if  the  house  was  on  fire.  But 
it  was  only  the  hair-dresser  curling  the  young  gentle- 
n»en,  and  overheating  his  tongs  in  the  ardor  of  business. 

When  Paul  was  dressed  —  which  was  very  soon  done, 
for  he  felt  unwell  and  drowsy,  and  was  not  able  to 
<:tand  about  it  very  long  —  he  went  down  into  the  draw- 
Ing-room;   where  he   found   Doctor  Blimber  pacing  up 


S88  DOMBEY   AND   SOS.  i 

find  down  the  room  full  dressed,  but  with  a  dignifieil 
and  unconcerned  demeanor,  as  if  he  thought  it  barely 
poesible  that  one  or  two  people  might  drop  in  by  and 
by.  Shortly  afterwards,  Mrs.  Blimber  appeared,  look- 
ing lovely,  Paul  thought ;  and  attired  in  such  a  number 
of  skirts  that  it  was  quite  an  excursion  to  walk  round 
hor.  Miss  Blimber  came  down  soon  after  her  mamma ; 
a  little  squeezed  in  appearance  but  very  charming. 

Mr.  Toots  and  Mr.  Feeder  were  the  next  arrivals. 
£ach  of  these  gentlemen  brought  his  hat  in  his  hand 
as  if  he  lived  somewhere  else ;  and  when  they  were 
announced  by  the  butler,  Doctor  Blimber  said,  "  Ay, 
ay,  ay !  God  bless  my  soul ! "  and  seemed  extremely 
glad  to  see  them.  Mr.  Toots  was  one  blaze  of  jewel- 
ry and  buttons ;  and  he  felt  the  circumstance  so  strongly, 
that  when  he  had  shaken  hands  with  tlie  doctor,  and 
had  bowed  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber,  he  took 
Paul  aside,  and  said,  "  What  do  you  think  of  this,  Dom- 
bey!" 

But  notwithstanding  this  modest  confidence  in  himself, 
Mr.  Toots  appeared  to  be  involved  in  a  good  deal  of 
uncertainty  whether,  on  the  whole,  it  was  judicious  to 
button  the  bottom  button  of  his  waistcoat,  and  whether, 
on  a  calm  revision  of  all  the  circumstances,  it  wa? 
best  to  wear  his  wristbands  turned  up  or  turned  down 
Observing  that  Mr.  Feeder's  were  turned  irp,  Mr  Toots 
tamed  his  un ;  but  the  wristbands  of  the  next  an  ival 
)eing  turned  down,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his  down.  The 
difl'erences  in  point  of  waistcoat-buttoning,  not  ca.ly  at 
the  bottom,  but  at  the  top  too,  became  so  nuinerous 
tnd  complicated  as  the  arrivals  thickened,  that  Mr.  Toots 
was  continually  fingering  that  article  of  dress,  as  if  he 
were    performing  on  some   instrument;    and    appeared 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  289 

lo  find  the  incessant  execution  it  demanded,  quite  be- 
wildering. 

All  the  young  gentlemen  tightly  cravatted,  curled, 
and  pumped,  and  with  their  best  hats  in  their  hands, 
having  teen  at  different  times  announced  and  introduced, 
Mr.  Baps,  the  dancing-master,  came,  accompanied  by 
Airs.  Baps,  to  whom  Mrs.  Blimber  was  extremely  kind 
Rud  condescending.  Mr.  Baps  was  a  very  grave  gen- 
tleman, with  a  slow  and  measured  manner  of  speaking: 
and  before  he  had  stood  under  the  lamp  five  minutes, 
he  began  to  talk  to  Toots  (who  had  been  silently  com- 
paring pumps  with  him)  about  what  you  were  to  do 
with  your  raw  materials  when  they  came  into  your 
ports  in  return  for  your  drain  of  gold.  Mr.  Toot-', 
to  whom  the  question  seemed  perplexing,  suggested 
■'Cook  'em."  But  Mr.  Baps  did  not  appear  to  think 
that  would  do. 

Paul  now  slipped  away  from  the  cushioned  cor- 
ner of  a  sofa,  which  had  been  his  post  of  observation, 
and  went  down-stairs  into  the  tea-room  to  be  ready 
for  Florence,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  nearly  a  fort- 
night, as  he  had  remained  at  Doctor  Bliraber's  on  the 
previous  Saturday  and  Sunday,  lest  he  should  take 
cold.  Presently  she  came :  looking  so  beautiful  in  her 
simple  ball-dress,  with  her  fresh  fiowers  in  her  hand, 
that  when  she  knelt  down  on  the  ground  to  'take  Paul 
round  the  neck  and  kiss  him  (lor  there  was  no  one 
lliere  but  his  friend  and  another  young  woman  wait- 
ing to  serve  out  the  tea),  he  could  hardly  make  up 
his  mind  to  let  her  go  again,  or  take  away  her  bright 
and  loving  eyes  from  his  face. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter,  Floy  ?  "  asked  Paul,  almoil 
<ure  that  he  saw  a  tear  there. 

VOL.   I.  19 


190  DOBIREY  AND  SON. 

**  Nothing,  darling,  nothing,"  returned  Florence. 

Paul  touched  her  cheek  gently  with  his  finger  —  aiul 
It  was  a  tear  !     "  Why,  Floy  !  "  said  he. 

"  We'll  go  home  together,  and  I'll  nurse  you,  iove," 
■aid  Florence. 

"  Nurse  me !  "  echoed  Paul. 

Paul  couldn't  understand  what  that  had  to  do  witl  it, 
nor  wiiy  the  two  young  women  looked  on  so  seriously, 
nor  why  Florence  turned  away  her  face  for  a  moment, 
end  then  turned  it  back,  lighted  up  again  with  smiles. 

"  Floy,"  said  Paul,  holding  a  ringlet  of  her  dark  hair 
in  his  hand.  "  Tell  me,  dear.  Do  you  think  I  have 
grown  old-fashioned  ?  " 

His  sister  laughed,  and  fondled  him,  and  told  him 
"  No." 

''  Because  1  know  tliey  say  so,"  returned  Paul,  "  and 
I  want  to  know  what  ihey  mean,  Floy." 

But  a  loud  double  knock  coming  at  the  door,  and 
Florence  hurrying  to  the  table,  there  was  no  more  said 
between  tliem.  Paul  wondered  again  when  he  saw 
his  friend  wiiisper  to  Florence,  as  if  she  were  com- 
forting  her ;  but  a  new  arrival  put  tliat  out  of  his  head 
speedily. 

It  was  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  Lady  Skettles,  and  Mas- 
ter Skettles.  Master  Skettles  was  to  be  a  new  boy  after 
the  vacatif)n,  and  Fame  had  been  busy,  in  Mr.  Feeder's 
room,  with  his  father,  who  was  in  the  House  of  Com 
aions,  and  of  whom  Mr.  Feeder  had  said  that  when  he 
did  catch  the  Speaker's  eye  (which  he  had  been  ex- 
ftocted  to  do  for  three  or  four  years),  it  was  anticipated 
that  he  would  rather  touch  up  the  Radicals. 

"  And  what  room  is  this  now,  for  instance  ?  "  said 
Lady  Skettles  to  Paul's  friend,  'Melia. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  291 

*  Doctor  BHraber's  study,  ma'am,"  was  the  reply. 

Lady  Skettles  took  a  panoramic  survey  of  it  through 
her  glass,  and  said  to  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  with  a  nod  of 
approval,  "  Very  good."  Sir  Barnet  assented,  but  Master 
Skettles  looked  suspicious  and  doubtful. 

"  And  this  little  creature,  now,"  said  Lady  Skettlcg 
himing  to  Paul.     "Is  he  one  of  the"  — 

"  Yourg  gentlemen,  ma'am  ;  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Paul's 
friend. 

"  And  what  is  your  name,  my  pale  child  ?  "  said  Lady 
Skettles. 

"  Dorabey,"  answered  Paul. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  immediately  interposed,  and  said 
that  he  had  had  the  honor  of  meeting  Paul's  father  at 
a  public  diimer,  and  that  he  hoped  he  was  very  well. 
Then  Paul  heard  him  say  to  Lady  Skettles,  "  City  — 
very  rich  —  most  respectable  —  doctor  mentioned  it." 
And  then  he  said  to  Paul,  "  Will  you  tell  your  good 
papa  that  Sir  Barnet  Skettles  rejoiced  to  hear  that  be 
was  very  well,  and  sent  him  his  best  compliments  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Paul. 

"  That  is  my  brave  boy,"  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 
"  Barnet,"  to  Master  Skettles,  who  was  revenging  him- 
Relf  for  the  studies  to  come,  on  the  plum-cake,  "  this  is 
a  young  gentleman  you  ought  to  know.  This  is  a 
young  gentleman  you  may  know,  Barnet,"  said  Sir 
Darnet  Skettles,  with  an  emphasis  on   the  permission 

"What  eyes!  What  hair!  What  a  lovely  face!" 
exclaimed  Lady  Skettles  softly,  as  she  looked  at  Flor- 
pnce  through  her  glass. 

"  My  sister,"  said  Paul,  presenting  her. 

The  satisfaction  of  the  Skettleses  was  now  complete. 
A.nd  as   Lady  Skettles  had  conceived,  at  first  sight,  a 


292  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

liking  for  Paul,  they  all  went  up-stairs  together  Sii 
Barnet  Skettles  taking  care  of  Florence,  and  young 
Barnet  following." 

Young  Barnet  did  not  remain  long  in  the  background 
after  they  had  reached  the  drawing-room,  for  Doctor 
Blimber  had  him  out  in  no  time,  dancing  with  Florer.co. 
He  did  not  appear  to  Paul  to  be  particularly  happy,  or 
particularly  anything  but  sulky,  or  to  care  much  what 
he  was  about ;  but  as  Paul  heard  Lady  Skettles  say  to 
Mrs.  Blimber,  while  she  beat  time  with  her  fan,  that 
her  dear  boy  was  evidently  smitten  to  death  by  that 
angel  of  a  child,  Miss  Dombey,  it  would  seem  that  Sket- 
tles junior  was  in  a  strfte  of  bliss  without  showing  it. 

Little  Paul  thought  it  a  singular  coincidence  that 
nobody  had  occupied  his  place  among  the  pillows ;  and 
that  when  he  came  into  the  room  again,  they  should  all 
.make  way  for  him  to  go  back  to  it,  remembering  it  was 
tiis.  Nobody  stood  before  him  either,  when  they  ob- 
served that  he  liked  to  see  Florence  dancing,  but  they 
left  the  space  in  front  quite  clear,  so  that  he  might  fol- 
low her  with  his  eyes.  They  were  so  kind,  too,  even 
the  strangers,  of  whom  there  were  soon  a  great  many, 
that  they  came  and  spoke  to  him  every  now  and  then, 
and  asked  him  how  he  was,  and  if  his  head  ached,  and 
whether  he  was  tired.  He  was  very  much  obliged  to 
Ihem  for  all  their  kindness  and  attention,  and  reclining 
propped  up  in  his  corner,  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Lady 
Skettles  on  the  same  sofa,  and  Florence  coming  and  sit- 
ting by  his  side  as  soon  as  every  dance  was  ended,  he 
looked  on  very  happily  indeed. 

Florence  would  have  sat  by  him  all  night,  and  would 
Dot  have  danced  at  all  of  her  own  accord,  but  Paul  made 
ber,  by  telling  her  how  much  it  pleased  him.     And  be 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  298 

told  her  the  truth,  too;  for  his  small  heart  swelled,  and 
his  face  glowed,  when  he  saw  how  much  they  all  admired 
her,  and  how  she  was  the  beautiful  little  rosebud  of  the 
room. 

Fiom  his  nest  among  the  pillows,  Paul  could  see  and 
hear  almost  everything  that  passed,  as  if  the  whole  were 
being  d;ne  for  his  amusement.  Among  other  little  in* 
cidects  that  he  observed,  he  observed  Mr.  Baps  the 
dancing-master  get  into  conversation  with  Sir  Bamet 
Skeltles,  and  very  soon  ask  him,  as  he  had  asked  Mr. 
Toots,  what  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw  materials, 
when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return  for  youi 
drain  of  gold  —  which  was  such  a  mystery  to  Paul  that 
he  was  quite  desirous  to  know  what  ought  to  be  done 
with  them.  Sir  Bamet  Skettles  had  much  to  say  upon 
the  question,  and  said  it ;  but  it  did  not  appear  to  solve 
the  question,  for  Mr.  Baps  retorted.  Yes,  but  supposing 
Russia  stepped  in  with  her  tallows,  which  struck  Sir  Bar- 
net  almost  dumb,  for  he  could  only  shake  his  head  after 
that,  and  sa}-,  why  then  you  must  fall  back  upon  your 
cottons,  he  supposed. 

Sir  Bamet  Skettles  looked  after  Mr.  Baps  when  he 
went  to  cheer  up  Mrs.  Baps  (who,  being  quite  deserted, 
was  pretending  to  look  over  the  music-book  of  the  geo» 
tleman  who  played  the  harp),  as  if  he  thought  him  a 
remarkable  kind  of  man  ;  and  shortly  afterwards  he  said 
BO  in  thu>e  words  to  Doctor  Blimber,  and  inquired  if  he 
might  take  the  liberty  of  asking  who  he  was,  and  whether 
he  had  ever  been  in  the  Board  of  Trade.  Doctor  Blim« 
ber  answered  no,  he  believed  not ;  and  that  in  lact  h? 
was  a. professor  of  — 

"Of  something  connected  with  statistics,  I'll  swear? 
•observed  Sir  Baruet  Skettles. 


S94  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Why  no,  Sir  Barnet,"  replied  Doctor  Blimber,  nib» 
bing  his  chin.     "  No,  not  exactly." 

"  Figures  of  some  sort  I  would  venture  a  bet,"  said 
Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  "  yes,  but  not  of 
Ihat  sort.  Mr.  Baps  is  a  very  worthy  sort  of  man 
Sir  Barnet,  and  —  in  fact  he's  our  professor  of  dan- 
cing." ^ 

Paul  was  amazed  to  see  that  this  piece  of  information 
quite  altered  Sir  Barnet  Skettles's  opinion  of  Mr.  Bnps, 
and  that  Sir  Barnet  flew  into  a  perfect  rage,  and  glow- 
ered at  Mr.  Baps  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  d  Mr.  Baps  to  Lady  Skettles, 
in  telling  her  what  had  happened,  and  to  say  that  it 
was  like  his  most  con-sum-mate  and  con-foun-ded  im- 
pudence. 

There  was  another  thing  that  Paul  observed.  Mr. 
Feeder,  after  imbibing  several  custard-cups  of  negus, 
began  to  enjoy  himself.  The  dancing  in  general  was 
ceremonious,  and  the  music  rather  solemn  —  a  little  like 
church-mu>ic  in  fact :  but  after  the  custard-cups,  Mr, 
Feeder  told  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  going  to  throw  a 
little  spirit  into  the  thing.  After  that,  Mr.  Feeder  not 
only  began  to  dance  as  if  he  meant  dancing  and  noth- 
ing else,  but  secretly  to  stimulate  the  music  to  perform 
wild  tunes.  Furtlier,  he  became  particular  in  his  at- 
tentions to  the  ladies;  and  dancing  with  Miss  Blimber 
whispered  to  her  —  whispered  to  her  !  —  though  not 
lo  softly  but  that  Paul  heard  him  say  this  remarkable 

poetry,  — 

"  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  You!  " 

This  Paul  heard  him  repeat  to  four  young  ladies  in 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  ^ 

wccession.  Well  might  Mr.  Feeder  say  to  Mr.  T«>ot3 
Hint  be  was  afraid  he  should  be  the  worse  for  it  to- 
morrow ! 

]\Irs.  Blimber  was  a  little  alarmed  by  this  —  compar 
atively  speaking  —  profligate  behavior ;  and  especially 
by  the  alteration  in  the  character  of  the  music,  which, 
bt ginning  to  comprehend  low  melodies  that  were  popu- 
Inf  in  the  streets,  might  not  unnatural^  be  supposed  to 
give  offence  to  Lady  Skettles.  But  Lady  Skettles  wa3 
BO  very  kind  as  to  beg  Mrs.  Blimber  not  to  mention  it ; 
and  to^ receive  her  explanation  that  Mr.  Feeder's  spirits 
sometimes  betrayed  him  into  excesses  on  these  occasions, 
with  the  greatest  courtesy  and  politeness;  observing,  that 
he  seemed  a  very  nice  sort  o*"  erson  for  his  situation, 
and  that  she  particularly  likeu  Jie  unassuming  style  of 
his  hair  —  which  (as  already  hinted)  was  about  a  quar- 
ter of  an  inch  long. 

Once,  when  there  was  a  pause  in  the  dancing.  Lady 
Skettles  told  Paul  that  be  seemed  very  fond  of  music 
Paul  replied,  that  he  was ;  and  if  she  was,  too,  she  ought 
to  hear  his  sister  Florence  sing.  Lady  Skettles  pres- 
ently discovered  that  she  was  dying  with  anxiety  to  have 
that  gratification  ;  and  though  Florence  was  at  first  very 
much  frightened  at  being  asked  to  sing  before  so  many 
people,  and  begged  earnestly  to  be  excused,  yet,  on  Paul 
calling  her  to  him,  and  saying,  "  Do,  Floy  !  Please  I 
For  me,  my  dear  !  "  she  went  straight  to  the  piano,  and 
began.  When  they  all  drew  a  little  away,  that  Paul 
might  see  her ;  and  when  he  saw  her  sitting  there  alone, 
90  young,  and  good,  and  beautiful,  and  kind  to  him ;  and 
heard  her  thrilling  voice,  so  natural  and  sweet,  and  such 
a  golden  link  between  him  and  all  his  life's  love  and 
lappiness,  rising  out  of  the  silence ;  he  turned  his  fac» 


296  DOMBET  AND  SOI?. 

away,  and  hid  his  tears.  Not,  as  he  told  them  wheu 
they  spoke  to  him,  not  that  the  music  was  too  plaintive  or 
too  sorrowful,  but  it  was  so  dear  to  him. 

They  all  loved  Florence  !  How  could  they  help  it ! 
Paul  had  known  beforehand  that  they  must  and  would ; 
and  silting  in  his  cushioned  corner,  with  calmly  folded 
hands,  and  one  leg  loosely  doubled  under  him,  few  would 
Lave  thought  what  triumph  and  delight  expanded  his 
childish  bosom  while  he  watched  her,  or  what  a  sweet 
tranquillity  he  felt.  Lavish  encomiums  on  "  Dombty'a 
sister,"  reached  his  ears  from  all  the  boys :  admiration 
of  the  self-possessed  and  modest  little  beauty,  was  on 
every  lip  :  reports  of  her  intelligence  and  accomplish- 
ments floated  past  him,  constantly  ;  and,  as  if  borne  in 
upon  the  air  of  the  summer  night,  there  was  a  half-intel- 
ligible sentiment  diffiised  around,  referring  to  Florence 
and  himself,  and  breathing  sympathy  for  both,  that 
Boothod  and  touclied  him. 

He  did  not  know  why.  For  all  that  the  child  ob- 
served, and  felt,  and  thought,  that  night  —  the  present 
and  the  absent ;  what  was  then  and  what  had  been  — 
were  blended  like  the  colors  in  the  rainbow,  or  in  the 
plumage  of  rich  birds  when  the  sun  is  shining  on  them 
or  in  the  softening  ^iky  when  the  same  sun  is  setting. 
The  many  things  he  had  had  to  think  of  lately,  passed 
before  him  in  the  music ;  not  as  claiming  his  attention 
over  again,  or  as  likely  ever  more  to  occupy  it,  but  as 
peacefully  disposed  of  and  gone.  A  solitary  window, 
gazed  through  years  ago,  looked  out  upon  an  ocean, 
miles  and  miles  away  ;  upon  its  waters,  fancies  busy  with 
iiim  only  yesterday,  were  hushed  and  lulled  to  rest  like 
oroken  waves.  The  same  mysterious  murmur  he  had 
wondered  at,  when  lying  on  his  couch  upon  the  beach. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  199 

he  thought  he  still  heard  sounding  through  his  sister  I 
song,  and  through  the  hum  of  voices,  and  the  tread  of 
feet,  and  having  some  part  in  the  faces  flitting  by,  and 
even  in  the  heavy  gentleness  of  Mr.  Toots,  vk^ho  fre- 
quently came  up  to  shake  him  by  the  hand.  Through 
the  universal  kindness  he  still  thought  he  heai'd  if, 
speaking  tc  him  ;  and  even  his  old-fashioned  reputatic» 
seemed  to  be  allied  to  it,  he  knew  not  how.  Thus  little 
Paul  sat  musing,  listening,  looking  on,  and  dreaming} 
and  was  very  hajjpy. 

Until  the  time  arrived  for  taking  leave .  and  then, 
indeed,  there  was  a  sensation  in  the  party.  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles  brouglit  up  Skettles  Junior  to  shake  hands  with 
him,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  remember  to  tell  his 
good  Papa,  with  his  best  compliments,  that  he,  Sir  Bar- 
net  Skettles,  had  said  he  hoped  the  two  young  gentle- 
men would  become  intimately  acquainted.  Lady  Skettles 
kissed  him,  and  parted  his  hair  upon  his  brow,  and  held 
him  in  her  arms ;  and  even  Mrs.  Baps  —  poor  Mrs. 
Baps  !  Paul  was  glad  of  that  —  came  over  from  beside 
the  music-book  of  the  gentleman  who  played  the  harp, 
and  took  leave  of  him  quite  as  heartily  as  anybody  io 
the  room. 

"  Good-by,  Doctor  Blimber,"  said  Paul,  stretching  ou< 
his  hand. 

"  Good-by,  my  little  friend,"  returned  the  doctor. 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  Paul,  look- 
ing innocently  up  into  his  awful  face.  "  Ask  them  to 
lake  care  of  Diogenes,  if  you  please." 

Diogenes  was  th^  dog :  who  had  never  in  his  lifo 
received  a  friend  into  his  confidence,  before  Paul.  Tha 
ioctor  promised  that  every  attention  should  be  paid  to 
Diogenes   in    Paul's   absence,  and   Paul   having   again 


298  DOMBET  AND  S   N. 

thanked  him,  add  shaken  hands  with  him,  bade  adieu  to 
Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia  with  such  heartfelt  earnest- 
ness th;it  Mrs.  Blimber  forgot  from  that  moment  to  men- 
lion  Cicero  to  Lady  Skettles,  though  she  had  fully  in- 
tendeil  it,  all  the  evening.  Cornelia  taking  both  Paul's 
hands  in  hers,  said,  "Dombey,  Dombey,  you  have  alwaya 
^M-n  my  favorite  pupil.  God  bless  you ! "  And  it 
showed,  Paul  thought,  how  easily  one  might  do  injustice 
to  a  person  ;  for  Miss  Blimber  meant  it  —  though  she 
was  a  Forcer  —  and  felt  it. 

A  buzz  then  went  round  among  the  young  gentlemen, 
of  "  Dombey 's  going  !  "  "  Little  Dorabey's  going  !  "  and 
there  was  a  general  move  after  Paul  and  Florence  down 
the  staircase  and  into  the  hall,  in  which  the  whole  Blim- 
ber family  were  included.  Such  a  circumstance,  Mr. 
Feeder  said  aloud,  as  had  never  happened  in  the  case  of 
any  former  young  gentleman  within  hi&  experience;  but 
it  would  be  dillicult  to  say  if  this  were  sober  fact  or 
custard-cups.  The  servants  with  the  butler  at  their 
head,  had  all  an  interest  in  seeing  Little  Dombey  go  ; 
and  even  the  weak-eyed  young  man,  taking  out  his  books 
and  trunks  to  the  coach  that  was  to  carry  hira  and  Flor- 
ence to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  for  the  night,  melted  visibly. 

Not  even  the  iiifluence  of  the  softer  passion  on  the 
young  gentlemen  —  and  they  all,  to  a  boy,  doted  on 
Florence  —  could  restrain  them  fmm  taking  quite  a 
noisy  leave  of  Paul ;  waving  hats  after  hira,  pressing 
ilown-stairs  to  shake  ha:ids  with  him,  crying  individually 
'  Dombey,  don't  forget  me !  "  and  indulging  in  many 
such  ebullitions  of  feeling,  uncommon  among  those  young 
Chesterfields.  Paul  vhispered  Florence,  as  she  wrapped 
bim  up  before  the  door  was  opened.  Did  she  hear  them  ? 
tJ\rould  she  ever  forget  it  ?     Was  she  glad  to  know  it  ? 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  499 

A-iid  a  lively  delight  was  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke  to 
her. 

Once,  for  a  last  look,  he  turned  and  gazed  upor  the 
faces  thus  addressed  to  him,  surprised  to  see  how  shining 
and  how  bright,  and  numerous  they  were,  and  how  they 
were  all  piled  and  heaped  up,  as  faces  are  at  crowded 
theatres.  They  swam  before  him  as  he  looked,  like 
faces  in  an  agitated  glass  :  and  next  moment  he  wua  in 
the  dark  coach  outside,  holding  close  to  Florence.  From 
that  time,  whenever  he  thought  of  Doctor  Blimber's,  it 
raime  back  as  he  had  seen  it  in  this  last  view ;  and  it 
never  seemed  to  be  a  real  place  again,  but  always  a 
dream,  full  of  eyes. 

This  was  not  quite  the  last  of  Doctor  Blimber's, 
howe\er.  There  was  something  else.  There  was  Mr. 
Toots.  Who,  unexi)ected]y  letting  down  one  of  the 
coach-windows,  and  looking  in,  said,  with  a  most  egre- 
gious chuckle,  "  Is  Dombey  there  ?  "  and  immediately 
put  it  up  again,  without  waiting  for  an  answer.  Nor 
was  this  quite  the  last  of  Mr.  Toots,  even  ;  for  before 
the  coachman  could  drive  off,  he  as  suddenly  let  down 
the  other  window,  and  looking  in  with  a  precisely  sim- 
ilar chuckle,  said  in  a  precisely  similar  tone  of  voice,  "  Is 
Dombey  there  ?  "  and  disappeared  precisely  as  before. 

How  Florence  laughed !  Paul  often  remembered  it, 
and  laughed  himself  whenever  he  did  so. 

But  there  was  much,  soon  afterwards —  next  day,  and 
after  that  —  whicli  Paul  could  only  recollect  confusedly. 
Lb,  why  they  stayed  at  Mrs.  Pipcliin's  days  and  nights, 
instead  of  going  home  ;  why  he  lay  in  bed,  with  Flor. 
ence  sitting  by  his  side ;  whether  that  had  been  his  father 
vn  the  room,  or  only  a  tall  shadow  on  the  wall ;  whether 
he  hail  heard  his  doctor  say,  of  some  one,  that  if  they 


MO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

had  removed  him  before  the  occasion  on  which  he  had 
built  up  fancies,  strong  in  proportion  to  his  own  weak* 
Dess,  it  was  very  possible  he  might  have  pined  away. 

He  could  not  even  remember  whether  he  had  often 
Baid  to  Florence,  "  Oh  Floy,  take  me  home,  and  never 
leave  me ! "  but  he  thought  he  had.  He  fancied  some* 
times  he  had  heard  himself  repeating,  "  Take  me  home, 
Floy  !  take  me  home  !  " 

But  he  could  remember,  when  he  got  home,  and  wa* 
carried  up  the  well-remembered  stairs,  that  there  had 
been  the  rumbling  of  a  coach  for  many  hours  together, 
while  he  lay  upon  the  seat,  with  Florence  still  beside 
him,  and  old  Mrs.  Pipchin  sitting  opposite.  He  remem- 
bered his  old  bed  too,  when  they  laid  him  down  in  it : 
his  aunt.  Miss  Tox,  and  Susa^i :  but  there  was  something 
else,  and  recent  too,  that  still  perplexed  him. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Florence,  if  you  please,"  he  said. 
•*  To  Florence  by  h*^r,self,  for  a  moment !  " 

She  bent  down  over  him,  and  the  others  stood  away. 

"  Floy,  my  pet,  wasn't  that  papa  in  the  hall,  when 
they  brought  me  from  the  coach  ?  " 

«  Yes,  dear." 

"  He  didn't  cry,  and  go  into  his  room,  Floy,  did  he, 
when  he  saw  me  coming  in  ?  " 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  pressed  her  lips  against 
his  cheek. 

^  I'm  very  glad  he  didn't  cry,"  said  little  PauL  <*  ] 
Miouwht  he  did.     Don't  tell  them  that  I  asked." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  801 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AMAZING    ARTFUI-NESS   OF   CAPTAIN   CDTTLE,  XSD  A   NEW 
PURSUIT    FOR    WALTER   GAY. 

.  Walter  could  not,  for  several  days,  decide  what  to 
do  in  the  Barbadoes  business  ;  and  even  cherished  some 
faint  hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  might  not  liave  meant  what 
he  had  said,  or  that  he  might  change  his  mind,  and  tell 
him  he  was  not  to  go.  But  as  nothing  occurred  to  give 
this  idea  (which  was  sufficiently  improbable  in  itself)  any 
touch  of  confirmation,  and  as  lime  was  slipping  by,  and 
he  had  none  to  lose,  he  felt  tliat  he  must  act,  without 
Hesitating  any  longer. 

Walter's  chief  difficulty  was,  how  to  break  the  change 
m  his  affairs  to  Uncle  Sol,  to  whom  he  was  sensible  it 
would  be  a  terrible  blow.  He  had  the  greater  difficulty 
in  dashing  Uncle  Sol's  spirits  with  such  an  astounding 
piece  of  intelligence,  because  they  had  lately  recovered 
very  much,  and  the  old  man  had  become  so  cheerful, 
that  the  little  back  parlor  was  itself  again.  Uncle  Sol 
had  paid  the  first  appointed  portion  of  the  debt  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  and  was  hopeful  of  working  his  way  through 
the  rest ;  and  to  cast  him  down  afresh,  when  he  had 
sprung  up  so  manfully  from  his  troubles,  was  a  very  dis- 
tressing necessity. 

Yet  it  would  never  do  to  run  away  from  him.  He 
must  know  of  it  beforehand ;  and  how  to  tell  him  wai 


802  DOMBET  Alff>  BON. 

the  point.  As  to  the  quesdon  of  going  or  not  going. 
Walter  did  not  consider  thaf  Le  had  any  power  of  choice 
in  the  matter.  Mr.  Dorabey  hkd  truly  tofd  him  that  he 
was  young,  and  that  his  uncle's  circumstances  were  not 
good  ;  and  Mr.  Dorabey  had  plainly  expressed,  in  the 
glance  with  whicli  he  had  accompanied  that  reminder, 
that  if  he  declined  to  go  he  might  stay  at  home  if  lie 
^  cho>e,  but  not  in  his  counting-house.  His  uncle  and  he 
hiy  under  a  great  obligation  to  Mr.  Dombey,  which  was 
of  Walter's  own  soliciting.  He  might  have  begun  in 
secret  to  despair  of  ever  winning  that  gentleman's  favor, 
and  might  have  thought  that  he  was  now  and  then  dis- 
posed to  put  a  slight  upon  him,  which  was  hardly  just 
But  what  would  have  been  daly  without  that,  was  still 
duty  with  it  —  or  Walter  thought  so  —  and  duty  mus* 
be  done. 

When  Mr.  Dombey  had  looked"''at  him,  and  told  him 
he  was  young,  and  that  his  uncle's  circumstances  were 
not  good,  there  had  been  an  expression  of  disdain  in  his 
face ;  a  contemptuous  and  disparaging  assumption  that 
he  would  be  quite  content  to  live  idly  on  a  reduced  old 
man,  which  stung  the  boy's  generous  soul.  Determined 
to  assure  Mr.  Dombey,  in  so  far  as  it  was  possible  to 
give  him  the  assurance  without  expressing  it  in  words, 
that  indeed  he  mistook  his  nature,  Walter  had  been  anx- 
ious to  show  even  more  cheerfulness  and  activity  after 
the  West-Indian  interview,  than  he  had  shown  before : 
if  that  were  possible,  in  one  of  his  quick  and  zealous 
disposition.  He  was  too  young  and  inexperienced  to 
think,  that  possibly  this  very  quality  in  him  was  not 
agreeable  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that  it  was  no  stepping- 
stone  to  his  good  opinion  to  be  elastic  and  hopeful  of 
pleasing  under   the  shadow  of  his  powerful  displea£ure^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON  803 

whether  it  were  right  or  wrong.  But  it  may  have  been 
—  it  may  have  been  —  that  the  great  man  thought  him- 
self defied  in  this  new  exposition  of  an  honest  spirit,  and 
purposed  to  bring  it  down. 

"  Well !  at  last  and  at  least,  Uncle  Sol  must  be  toW,* 
thought  Walter  with  a  sigh.  And  as  Walter  was  appre- 
hensive that  his  voice  might  perhaps  quaver  a  little,  and 
that  1  is  countenance  might  not  be  quite  as  hopeful  as  he 
r!ould  wish  it  to  be,  if  he  told  the  old  man  himself,  and 
saw  the  first  effects  of  his  communication  on  his  wrinkled 
face,  he  resolved  to  avail  himself  of  the  services  of  that 
powerful  mediator,  Captain  Cuttle.  Sunday  coming 
round,  he  set  ofl^,  therefore,  after  breakfast,  once  more 
to  beat  up  Captain  Cuttle's  quarters. 

It  was  not  unpleasant  to  remember,  on  the  way  thither, 
that  Mrs.  MacStinger  resorted  to  a  great  distance  every 
Sunday  morning,  to  attend  the  ministry  of  the  Reverend 
Melchisedech  Howler,  who,  having  been  one  day  dis- 
charged from  the  West  India  Docks  on  a  false  suspicion 
(got  up  expressly  against  him  by  the  general  enemy)  of 
screwing  gimlets  into  puncheons,  and  applying  his  lips  to 
the  orifice,  had  announced  the  destruction  of  the  world 
for  that  day  two  years,  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and  opened 
a  fi'ont  parlor  for  the  reception  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
of  the  Ranting  persuasion,  upon  whom,  on  the  first  occa- 
sion of  their  assemblage,  the  admonitions  of  the  Rever- 
end Melehisedech  had  produced  so  powerful  an  effect, 
that,  in  tlieir  rapturous  performance  of  a  sacred  jig, 
which  closed  the  seivice,  the  whole  flock  bi-oke  through 
Vito  a  kitchen  below,  and  disabled  a  mangle  belonging  to 
i>ne  of  the  fold. 

This  the  captain,  in  a  moment  of  uncommon  convivi- 
iility,  had  confided  to  Walter  and  his  uncle,  between  the 


304  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

repetitions  of  lovely  Peg,  on  the  night  when  Brogley  the 
broker  was  paid  out.  The  captain  himself  was  punctual 
in  his  attendance  at  a  church  in  his  own  neighborhood, 
which  hoisted  the  union-jack  every  Sunday  morning; 
and  where  he  was  good  enough  —  the  lawful  beadle 
being  infirm  —  to  keep  an  eye  upon  the  boys,  over  whom 
be  exercised  great  power,  in  virtue  of  his  mysterious 
hook.  Knowing  the  regularity  of  the  captain's  habits, 
Walter  made  all  the  haste  he  could,  that  he  might  antici- 
pate his  going  out ;  and  he  made  such  good  speed,  that 
he  had  the  pleasure,  on  turning  into  Brig  Place,  to  be- 
hold the  broad  blue  coat  and  waistcoat  hanging  out  of 
the  captain's  open  window,  to  air  in  the  sun. 

It  appeared  incredible  that  the  coat  and  waistcoat 
could  be  seen  by  mortal  eyes  without  the  captain  ;  but  he 
certainly  was  not  in  tliem,  otherwise  his  legs  —  the 
houses  in  Brig  Place  not  being  lofty  —  would  have  ob- 
structed the  street-door,  which  was  perfectly  clear. 
Quite  wondering  at  this  discovery,  Walter  gave  a  sin- 
gle knock. 

"  Stinger,"  he  distinctly  heard  the  captain  say,  up  in 
his  room,  as  if  that  were  no  business  of  his.  Therefore 
Walter  gave  two  knocks. 

"  Cuttle,"  he  heard  the  captain  say  upon  that ;  and  im- 
mediately afterwards  the  captain,  in  his  clean  shirt  and 
biaces,  with  his  neckerchief  hanging  loosely  round  lii^ 
thn>at  like  a  coil  of  rope,  and  his  glazed  hat  on,  ;(!.- 
peered  at  the  window,  leaning  out  over  the  broad  Line 
coat  and  waistcoat. 

"  Wal'r !  "  cried  the  captain,  looking  down  upon  hiiii 
m  amazement. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  **  onl) 
me." 


9 

DOMBET  AND  SON.  805 

**  What's  the  matter,  my  lad  ?  "  inquired  tLb  captain, 
with  great  concern,  •'  Gills  a'n't  been  and  sprung  nothing 
again  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Walter.  "  My  uncle's  all  right,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle." 

The  captain  expressed  liis  gratification,  and  said  he 
would  come  down  below  and  open  the  door,  which  he 
did. 

"  Though  you're  early,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  ey- 
ing him  still  doubtfully,  when  they  got  up-.stairs. 

''  Why,  the  fact  is,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  sit- 
ting down,  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  have  gone  out,  and 
I  want  to  benefit  by  your  friendly  counsel." 

"  So  you  shall,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  what'll  you  take?" 

"  I  want  to  take  your  opinion,  Captain  Cuttle,"  re- 
turned Walter,  smiling.  "  That's  the  only  thing  for 
me." 

"  Come  on  then,"  said  the  captain.  "  With  a  will,  ray 
lad!" 

Walter  related  to  him  what  had  happened ;  and  the 
difficulty  in  which  he  felt  respecting  his  uncle,  and  the 
relief  it  would  be  to  him  if  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  kind- 
n{!ss,  would  help  him  to  smooth  it  away  ;  Captain  Cut- 
tle's infinite  consternation  and  astonishment  at  the  pros- 
pect unfolded  to  him,  gradually  swallowing  that  gentle- 
man up,  until  it  left  his  face  quite  vacant,  and  the  suit 
of  blue,  the  glazed  hat,  and  the  hook,  apparently  without 
«n  owner. 

"  You  see,  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Walter,  "  for  my- 
self, I  am  young,  as  Mr.  Dombey  said,  and  ndt  to  be 
considered.  I  am  to  fight  my  way  through  the  world,  I 
know ;  but  there  are  two  points  I  was  thinking,  as  I 
came  along,  that  I  should  be  very  particular  about,  iff 

VOL.  1  20 


806  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

respect  to  my  uncle.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  deserve 
to  be  the  pride  and  delight  of  his  life  —  you  believe  me, 
I  know  —  but   I  am.     Now,   don't  you  think   T  am  ? " 

The  captain  seemed  to  make  an  endeavor  to  rise  from 
the  depths  of  his  astonishment,  and  get  back  to  his  face ; 
but  the  etFort  being  ineffectual,  the  glazed  hat  merely 
nodded  with  a  mute  unutterable  meaning. 

'*  If  I  live  and  have  my  health,"  said  Walter,  "  and  I 
am  not  afraid  of  that,  still,  when  I  leave  England,  I  can 
hardly  hope  to  see  my  uncle  again.  He  is  old,  Captain 
Cuttle  ;  and  besides,  his  life  is  a  life  of  custom  "  — 

"  Steady,  Wal'r !  Of  a  want  of  custom  ?  "  said  the 
captain,  suddenly  reappearing. 

'*  Too  true,"  returned  Walter,  shaking  his  head  ;  "  but 
I  meant  a  life  of  habit.  Captain  Cuttle  —  that  sort  of 
custom.  And  if  (as  you  very  truly  said,  I  am  sure)  he 
would  have  died  the  sooner  for  the  loss  of  'the  stock, 
and  all  those  objects  to  which  he  has  been  accustomed 
for  so  many  years,  don't  you  think  he  might  die  a  little 
sooner  for  the  loss  of"  — 

"  Of  his  nevy,"  interposed  the  captain.     "  Right !  " 

"  Well  then,"  said  Walter,  tiying  to  speak  gayly,  "  we 
must  do  our  best  to  make  him  believe  that  the  sepam- 
1.  tion  is  but  a  temporary  one,  after  all ;  but  as  I  know 
better,  or  dread  that  I  know  better.  Captain  Cuttle,  and 
as  I  have  so  many  reasons  for  regarding  him  with  affec- 
tion, and  duty,  and  honor,  I  am  afraid  I  should  make 
but  a  very  poor  hand  at  that,  if  I  tried  to  persuade  him 
of  it.  That's  my  great  reason  for  wishing  you  to  break 
it  out  to  him  ;  and  that's  the  first  point." 

"Keep  her  off  a  point  or  so!"  observed  the  captain, 
in  a  contemplative  voice. 

^  What  did  you  say,  Captain  Cuttle  ?  "  inquired  Wal- 
ter 


DOMBEY  AND  SOS.  807 

**  Stand  by ! "  returned  the  captain,  thoughtfully. 

"Walter  paused  to  ascertain  if  the  captain  had  any  paf 
ticular  information  to  add  to  thi^,  but  as  .he  said  no  morei 
went  on.  ..,-    >•  w..,|  .,.  ,      ]     j      ;  ;,  . 

"  Now,  the  .-econd  point.  Captain  Cuttle.  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  I  am  not  a  favorite  with  Mr.  Dombey.  I  have 
always  tried  to  do  my  best,  and  I  have  always  done  it, 
but  he  does  not  like  me.  He  can't  lielp  his  likings  and 
dislikings,  perhaps.  I  say  nothing  of  that.  I  only  say 
that  I  am  certain  he  does  not  like  me.  He  does  not 
send  me  to  this  post  as  a  good  one  ;  he  disdains  to  rep- 
resent it  as  being  better  than  it  is ;  and  I  doubt  very 
much  if  it  will  ever  letid  me  to  advancement  in  the 
House  —  whether  it  does  not,  on  the  contraiy,  dispose 
of  me  forever,  and  put  me  out  of  the  way.  Now,  we 
must  say  nothing  of  this  to  my  uncle,  Captain  Cuttle, 
but  must  make  it  out  to  be  as  favorable  and  promising 
as  we  can  ;  and  when  I  tell  you  what  it  really  is,  I  only 
do  so,  that  in  case  any  means  should  ever  arise  of  lend- 
ing me  a  hand,  so  far  off,  I  may  have  one  friend  at  home 
who  knows  my  real  situalion." 

"  Wal'r,  my  boy,"  replied  the  captam,  "  in  the  Prov- 
erbs  of  Solomon   you    will   find   the    following   words, 
May  we  never  want  a  friend  in  need,  nor  a  bottle  to 
give  him!'     When  found,  make  a  note  of." 

Here  the  captain  stretched  out  his  hand  to  "Walter, 
with  an  air  of  downright  good  faith  that  spoke  volumes ; 
at  the  same  time  repeating  (for  he  felt  proud  of  the  ac- 
curacy and  pointed  application  of  bis  quotation),  *'  When 
found,  make  a  note  of." 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  "Walter,  taking  the  immense 
fist  extended  to  him  by  the  captain  in  both  his  hands, 
which  it  completely  filled,  "  next  to  my  Uncle  Sol,  I  love 


808  DOMBEY  AND  SON-. 

you.  There  is  no  one  on  earth  in  whom  I  can  more 
safely  trust,  I  am  sure.  As  to  the  mere  going  away, 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  don't  care  for  that ;  why  should  I  care 
for  that !  If  I  were  free  to  seek  my  own  fortune  —  if  T 
were  free  to  go  as  a  common  sailor  —  if  I  were  free  to 
venture  on  my  own  account  to  the  farthest  end  of  the 
world  —  I  would  gladly  go !  I  would  have  gladly  gone, 
years  ago,  and  taken  my  chance  of  what  might  come  of 
it.  But  it  was  against  my  uncle's  wishes,  and  against 
the  plans  he  had  formed  for  me  ;  and  there  was  an  end 
of  that.  But  what  I  feel,  Captain  Cuttle,  is  that  we 
have  been  a  little  mistaken  all  along,  and  that,  so  far  aa 
any  improvement  in  my  pi'ospects  is  concei-ned,  I  am  no 
better  off  now  than  I  was  when  I  first  entered  Dom bey's 
House —  perhaps  a  little  worse,  for  the  House  may  have 
been  kindly  inclined  towards  me  then,  and  it  cei-tainly  is 
not  now." 

"  Turn  again,  Whittington,"  muttered  the  disconsolate 
captain,  after  looking  at  Walter  for  some  time. 

"  Ay  !  "  replied  Walter,  laughing,  "  and  turn  a  great 
many  times,  too.  Captain  Cuttle,  I'm  afraid,  before  such 
fortune  as  his  ever  turns  up  again.  Not  that  I  com- 
plain," he  added,  in  his  lively,  animated,  energetic  way. 
"I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  I  am  provided  for.  I 
can  live.  When  I  leave  my  uncle,  I  leave  him  to  you ; 
and  I  can  leave  him  to  no  one  better.  Captain  Cuttle.  I 
haven't  told  you  all  this  because  I  despair,  not  I ;  it's  to 
convince  you  that  I  can't  pick  and  choose  in  Dorabey'a 
House,  and  that  where  I  am  sent,  there  I  must  go,  and 
what  I  am  offered,  that  I  must  take.  It's  better  for  my 
jncle  that  I  should  be  sent  away  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  is  a 
ealuabh  friend  to  him,  as  he  proved  himself,  you  know 
when,  Captain  Cuttle  ;  and  I  am  persuaded  be  won't  be 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  309 

less  valuable  when  he  hasn't  me  there,  every  day,  tc 
Bwaken  his  dislike.  So  hurrah  for  the  West  Indies, 
Captain  Cuttle  !  How  does  that  tune  go  that  the  sailora 
ping? 

"  For  the  Port  of  Barbadoes,  boys ! 

Cheerily ! 
Leaving  old  England  behind  us,  boys ! 
Cheerily!" 

Here  the  captain  roared  in  chorus 

"  Oh  cheerily,  cheerily ! 

"  Oh  cheer — i — ly!  " 

The  last  line  reaching  the  quick  ears  of  an  ardent 
skipper  not  quite  sober,  who  lodged  opposite,  and  who 
instantly  sprung  out  of  bed,  threw  up  his  window,  and 
joined  in  across  the  street,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  pro- 
duced a  fine  effect.  When  it  was  impossible  to  sustain 
the  concluding  note  any  longer,  the  skipper  bellowed 
forth  a  terrific  •'  ahoy  ! "  intended  in  part  as  a  friendly 
greeting,  and  in  part  to  show  that  he  w.-is  not  at  ail 
breathed.  That  done,  he  shut  down  his  window^,  and 
went  to  bed  again. 

"  And  now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  handing 
him  the  blue  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  bustling  very  much, 
"  if  you'll  come  and  break  the  news  to  Uncle  Sol  (which 
be  ought  to  have  known,  days  upon  days  ago,  by  rights) 
1 11  leave  you  at  the  door,  you  know,  and  walk  about 
until  tlie  afternoon." 

The  captain,  however,  scarcely  appeared  to  relish  the 
commigsion,  or  to  be  by  any  means  confident  of  his 
powers  of  executing  it.  He  had  arranged  the  future 
Ufe  and  adventures  of  Walter  so  very  differently,  and  so 
rntirely  to  his  own  satisfaction ;  he  had  felicitated  him- 
*elf  so  often  on  the  sagacity  and  foresigl  I  displayed  in 


810  DOMBEY  AND  BON. 

that  arrangement,  and  had  found  it  so  complete  and  per- 
fect in  all  its  parts  ;  that  to  suffer  it  to  go  to  pieces  all 
at  once,  and  even  to  assist  in  breaiting  it  up,  required  a 
great  effort  of  his  resolution.  The  captain,  too,  found  it 
difficult  to  unload  his  old  ideas  upon  the  subject,  and  to 
take  a  perfectly  new  cargo  on  board,  with  that  rapidity 
which  the  circumstances  required,  or  without  jumbling 
and  confounding  the  two  Consequently,  instead  of  put- 
ting on  his  coat  and  waistcoat  with  anything  like  the 
impetuosity  that  could  alone  have  kept  pace  with  Wal- 
ter's mood,  he  declined  to  mvest  himself  with  those  gar- 
ments p.t  all  at  present ;  and  informed  Walter  that  on 
Buch  a  Jierious  matter,  he  must  be  allowed  to  "  bite  his 
nails  a  bit." 

"  It's  an  old  habit  of  mine,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain, 
"  any  time  these  fifty  year.  When  you  see  Ned  Cuttle 
bite  his  nails,  Wal'r,  then  you  may  know  that  Ned  Cut- 
U'».'s  aground." 

Thereupon  the  captain  put  his  iron  hook  between  his 
teeth,  as  if  it  were  a  hand ;  and  with  an  air  of  wisdom 
and  profundity  that  was  the  very  concentration  and  sub- 
limation of  all  philosophical  reflection  and  grave  inquiry, 
applied  himself  to  the  consideration  of  the  subject  in  ita 
various  bi'anches. 

"  There's  a  friend  of  mine,"  murmured  the  captain,  in 
an  absent  manner,  "but  he's  at  present  coasting  i-ound  to 
Whitby,  that  would  deliver  such  an  opinion  on  this  sub- 
ject, or  any  other  that  could  be  named,  as  would  give 
Parliament  six  and  beat  'em.  Been  knocked  overboard 
that  man,"  said  the  captain,  "  twice,  and  none  the  worse 
for  it.  Was  beat  in  his  apprenticeship,  for  three  weeks 
('off  and  on),  about  the  head  with  a  ringbclt.  And  yet  » 
clearer-minded  man  don't  walk." 


DOMBEY  AND  SO.^.  311 

In  spite  of  his  respect  for  Captain  Cuttle,  "Waltei 
coukl  not  help  inwardly  rejoicing  at  the  absence  of  this 
SJige,  and  devoutly  hoping  that  his  limpid  intellect  might 
n(»t  be  brought  to  bear  on  his  ditficulties  until  they  were 
quite  &3ttled. 

"  If  you  was  to  take  and  show  that  man  the  buoy  at 
the  Nore,"  said  Captain  Cuttle  in  the  same  tone,  "  and 
ask  liirn  his  opinion  of  it,  Wal'r,  he'd  give  you  an  opin- 
ion that  was  no  more  like  that  buoy  than  your  uncle's 
buttons  are.  There  a'n't  a  man  that  walks  —  certainly 
not  on  two  legs  —  that  can  come  near  him.  Not  near 
him  ! " 

"What's  his  name,  Captain  Cuttle?"  inquired  Wal- 
ter, determined  to  be  interested  in  the  captain's  fiiend. 

"  His  name's  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain.  "  But  Lord, 
it  might  be  anything  for  the  matter  of  that,  with  such  a 
mind  as  his  !  " 

The  exact  idea  which  the  captain  attached  to  this 
concluding  piece  of  praise,  he  did  not  further  elucidate ; 
neither  did  Walter  seek  to  draw  it  forth.  For  on  his 
beginning  to  review,  with  the  vivacity  natural  to  himself 
and  to  his  situation,  the  leading  points  in  his  own  affaii*s, 
he  soon  discovered  that  the  captain  had  relapsed  into  hia 
former  profound  state  of  mind  ;  and  that  while  he  eyed 
him  steadfastly  from  beneath  his  bushy  eyebrows,  he 
evidently  neither  saw  nor  heard  him,  but  remained  im- 
mersed in  cogitation. 

In  fact,  Captain  Cuttle  was  laboring  with  such  great 
designs,  that  far  fioni  being  aground,  he  soon  got  oflT  into 
the  deepest  of  wafer,  and  could  find  no  bottom  to  his 
penetration.  By  degrees  it  became  perfectly  plain  to  the 
captain  that  there  was  some  mistake  here;  that  it  was 
undoubtedly  much  more  likely  to  be  Walter's  mistak* 


312  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

than  liis ;  that  if  there  were  really  any  West  India 
Bcheme  afoot,  it  was  a  very  different  one  from  what 
Walter,  who  was  young  and  rash,  supposed ;  and  could 
only  be  some  new  device  for  making  his  fortune  with 
unusual  celerity.  "  Or  if  there  should  be  any  little 
hitch  between  'em,"  thought  the  captain,  meaning  be« 
twcen  Walter  and  Mr.  Dombey,  "  it  only  wants  a  word 
in  season  from  a  friend  of  both  parties,  to  set  it  right 
and  smooth,  and  make  all  taut  again."  Captain  Cuttle's 
deduction  from  these  considerations  was,  that  as  he  al- 
ready enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey, 
from  having  spent  a  very  agreeable  half  hour  in  liis  com- 
pany at  Brighton  (on  the  morning  when  they  borrowed 
the  money)  ;  and  that,  as  a  couple  of  men  of  the  world, 
who  understood  each  other,  and  were  mutually  disposed 
to  make  things  comfortable,  could  easily  arrange  any 
little  difficulty  of  this  sort,  and  come  at  the  real  facts ; 
the  friendly  thing  for  him  to  do  would  be,  without  saying 
anything  about  it  to  Walter,  at  present  just  to  step  up  to 
Mr.  Dorabey's  house  —  say  to  the  servant  "  Would  ye 
bo  so  good,  my  lad,  as  report  Cap'en  Cuttle  here?"  — 
meet  Mr.  Dombey  in  a  confidential  spirit  —  hook  him 
by  the  button-hole  —  talk  it  over  —  make  it  all  right  — 
and  come  away  triumphant. 

As  these  reflections  presented  themselves  to  the  cap 
tain's  mind,  and  by  slow  degrees  assumed  this  shape  and 
form,  his  visage  cleared  like  a  doubtful  morning  when  it 
gives  place  to  a  bright  noon.  His  eyebrows,  which  had 
been  in  the  highest  degree  portentous,  smoothed  their 
rugged  bristling  aspect,  and  became  serene  ;  his  eyes, 
which  had  been  nearly  closed  m  the  severity  of  his 
mental  exercise,  opened  freely ;  a  smile  which  had  been 
lit  first  but  three  specks  —  one  at  the  right-hand  comet 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  813 

of  his  mouth,  and  one  at  the  corner  of  each  eye  — 
gradually  overspread  his  whole  face,  and  rippling  up 
into  his  forehead,  lifted  the  glazed  hat :  as  if  that  too 
had  been  aground  with  Captain  Cuttle,  and  were  now, 
like  him,  happily  afloat  again. 

Finally  the  captain  left  off  biting  his  nails,  and  said, 
"  Now,  Wal'r,  my  boy,  you  may  help  me  on  with  them 
slops."  By  which  the  captain  meant  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat. 

Walter  little  imagined  why  the  captain  was  so  par- 
ticular in  the  arrangement  of  his  cravat,  as  to  twist  the 
pendant  ends  into  a  sort  of  pigtail,  and  pass  them  through 
a  massive  gold  ring  with  a  picture  of  a  tomb  upon  it,  and 
a  noat  iron  railing,  and  a  tree,  in  memory  of  some  de- 
ceased friend.  Nor  why  the  captain  pulled  up  his  shirt- 
collar  to  the  utmost  limits  allowed  by  the  Irish  linen 
below,  and  by  so  doing  decorated  himself  with  a  com- 
plete pair  of  blinkers ;  nor  why  he  changed  his  shoes, 
and  put  on  an  unparalleled  pair  of  ankle-jacks,  which 
he  only  wore  on  extraordinary  occasions.  The  captain 
being  at  length  attired  to  his  own  complete  satisfaction, 
and  having  glanced  at  himself  from  head  to  foot  in  a 
shaving-glass  which  he  removed  from  a  nail  for  that 
purpose,  took  up  his  knotted  stick,  and  said  he  waa 
ready. 

The  captain's  walk  was  more  complacent  than  usual 
when  they  got  out  into  the  street ;  but  this,  Walter  sup- 
posed to  be  the  effect  of  the  ankle-jacks,  and  took  little 
lieed  of.  Before  they  had  gone  very  far,  they  encoun- 
tered a  woman  selling  flowers  ;  when  the  captain  stopping 
short,  as  if  struck  by  a  happy  idea,  made  a  purchasu 
of  the  largest  bundle  in  her  basket ;  a  most  glorioui- 
uosegay,  fan-shaped,  some  two   feet   and    a  half  round 


314  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  composed   of  all   the  joUiest-looking   flowers  that 

blow. 

Armed  with  this  little  token  which  he  designed  for 
Mr.  Dombey,  Captain  Cuttle  walked  on  with  Walter 
until  they  reached  the  Instrument-maker's  door,  before 
whiiJi  they  both  paused. 

"  You're  going  in  .''  "  said  Walter. 

**  Yes ;  "  returned  the  captain,  who  felt  that  Walter 
must  be  got  rid  of  before  he  proceeded  any  farther,  and 
that  he  had  better  time  his  projected  visit  somewhat  later 
m  the  day. 

"  And  you  won't  forget  anything  ?  "  said  Walter. 

"  No,"  returned  the  captain. . 

'*  I'll  go  upon  my  walk  at  once,"  said  Walter,  "  and 
then  I  shall  be  out  of  the  way,  Capjain  Cuttle." 

"  Take  a  good  long  'un,  my  lad  !  "  replied  the  captain, 
calling  after  him.  Walter  waved  his  hand  in  assent,  and 
went  his  way. 

His  way  was  nowhere  in  particular ;  but  he  thought 
he  would  go  out  into  the  fields,  where  he  C3uld  reflect 
upon  the  unknown  life  before  him,  and  resting  under 
some  tree,  ponder  quietly.  He  knew  no  better  fields 
than  those  near  Hampstead,  and  no  better  means  of 
getting  at  them  than  by  passing  Mr.  Dombey's  house. 

It  was  as  stately  and  as  dark  as  ever,  when  he  went 
by  and  glanced  up  at  its  frowning  front.  The  blinds 
were  all  pulled  down,  but  the  upi)er  windows  stood 
wide  open,  and  the  pleasant  air  stirring  those  curtains 
and  waving  them  to  and  fro,  was  the  only  sign  of  aiii- 
mation  in  the  whole  exterior.  Walter  walked  softly  as 
he  passed,  and  was  glad  when  he  had  left  the  house  8 
door  or  two  behind. 

He  looked  back  then ;  with  the  interest  he  had  alway* 


DOMBEY  AND  SOV.  315 

felt  for  the  place  since  the  adventure  of  the  lost  child 
jrears  ago  ;  and  looked  especially  at  those  upper  win 
dews.  While  he  was  thus  engaged,  a  chariot  drove  to 
the  door,  and  a  portly  gentleman  in  black,  with  a  heavy 
watch-chain,  alighted,  and  went  in.  When  he  afterwards 
remembered  this  gentleman  and  his  equipage  together, 
Walter  had  no  doubt  he  was  a  physician  ;  and  then  he 
wondered  who  was  ill ;  but  the  discovery  did  not  occur 
to  him  until  he  had  walked  some  di^^tance,  thinking  list- 
lessly of  other  things. 

Though  still,  of  what  the  house  had  suggested  to  him ; 
for  Walter  pleased  himself  with  thinking  that  perhaps 
the  time  might  come,  when  the  beautiful  child  who  was 
his  old  friend  and  had  always  been  so  grateful  to  him 
and  so  glad  to  see  him  since,  might  interest  her  brother 
in  his  belialf  and  influence  his  fortunes  for  the  better. 
He  liked  to  imagine  this  —  more,  at  that  moment,  for 
the  pleasure  of  imagining  her  continued  remembrance 
of  him,  than  for  any  worldly  profit  he  might  gain :  but 
another  and  more  sober  fancy  whispered  to  him  that  if 
be  were  alive  then,  he  would  be  beyond  the  sea  and 
forgotten  ;  she  married,  rich,  proud,  happy.  There  was 
no  more  reason  why  she  should  remember  him  with  any 
interest  in  such  an  altered  state  of  things,  than  any  play- 
thing she  ever  had.     No,  not  so  much. 

Yet  Walter  so  idealized  the  pretty  child  whom  he  had 
found  wandering  in  the  rough  streets,  and  so  identified 
her  with  her  innocent  gratitude  of  that  night  and  the 
simplicity  and  truth  of  its  expression,  that  he  blushed 
'or  himself  as  a  libeller  when  he  argued  that  she  could 
ever  grow  proud.  On  the  other  hand,  his  meditations 
were  of  that  fantastic  order  that  it  seemed  hardly  less 
libellous   in   him   to  imagine  her  grown  a  woman :   t« 


816  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

think  of  her  as  anything  but  the  same  artless,  gentle, 
winning  little  creature,  that  she  had  been  in  the  daya 
of  good  Mrs.  Brown.  In  a  word,  Walter  found  out 
that  to  reason  with  himself  about  Florence  at  all,  was 
to  become  very  unreasonable  indeed  ;  and  that  he  could 
do  no  better  than  preserve  her  image  in  his  mind  as 
something  precious,  unattainable,  unchangeable,  and  in- 
definite —  indefinite  in  all  but  its  power  of  giving  hira 
pleasure,  and  restraining  him  like  an  angel's  hand  from 
anything  unworthy. 

It  was  a  long  stroll  in  the  fields  that  Walter  took  that 
day,  listening  to  the  birds,  and  the  Sunday  bells,  and  the 
softened  murmur  of  the  town  —  breathing  sweet  scents ; 
glancing  sometimes  at  the  dim  horizon  beyond  which  his 
voyage  and  his  place  of  destination  lay  ;  then  looking 
round  on  the  green  English  grass  and  the  home  land- 
icape.  But  he  hardly  once  thought  even  of  going  away, 
distinctly ;  and  seemed  to  put  off  reflection  idly,  from 
hour  to  hour,  and  from  minute  to  minute,  while  he  yet 
went  on  reflecting  all  the  time. 

Walter  had  left  the  fields  behind  him,  and  was  plo<l- 
ding  homeward  in  the  same  abstracted  mood,  when  he 
heard  a  shout  from  a  man,  and  then  a  woman's  voice 
calling  to  him  loudly  by  name.  Turning  quickly  in  his 
surprise,  he  saw  that  a  hackney-coach,  going  in  the  con- 
trary direction,  had  stopped  at  no  great  distance  ;  that 
the  coachman  was  looking  back  from  his  box,  and  mak- 
ing signals  to  him  with  his  whip ;  and  that  a  young 
woman  inside  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  beck- 
ouing  with  immense  energy.  Running  up  to  this  coach, 
he  found  that  the  young  woman  was  Mise  Nipper,  and 
that  Miss  Nipper  was  in  such  a  flutter  as  to  be  almosJ 
beside  herself. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  817 

**  Staggs's  Gardens,  Mr.  Walter  !  "  said  Miss  Nipper ; 
*  if  you  please,  oh  do  !  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  cried  Walter :  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you  please  !  " 
said  Susan. 

**  There  !  "  cried  the  coachman,  appealing  to  Walter, 
with  a  sort  of  exulting  despair ;  "  that's  the  way  the 
young  lady's  been  a-goin'  on  for  up'ards  of  a  mortal 
hour,  and  me  continivally  backing  out  of  no  thorough- 
fares, where  she  would  drive  up.  I've  had  a  many 
fares  in  this  coach,  first  and  last,  but  never  such  a  farfr 
as  her." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  to  Staggs's  Gardens,  Susan  ?  " 
inquired  Walter. 

"Ah!  She  wants  to  go  there!  Where  is  it?" 
growled  the  coachman. 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is  ! "  exclaimed  Susan,  wildly. 
"  Mr.  Walter,  I  was  there  once  myself,  along  with  Miss 
Floy  and  our  poor  darling  Master  Paul,  on  the  very  day 
when  you  found  Miss  Floy  in  the  city,  for  we  lost  her 
coming  home,  Mrs.  Richards  and  me,  and  a  mad  bull, 
and  Mrs.  Richards'  eldest,  and  though  I  went  there 
afterwards,  I  can't  remember  where  it  is,  I  think  it's 
sunk  into  the  ground.  Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  don't  desert 
roe,  Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you  please !  Miss  Floy's  dar- 
ling —  all  our  darlings  —  little,  meek,  meek  Master 
Paul !     Oh  Mr.  Walter  !  " 

"  Good  God  !  "  cried  Walter.     "  Is  he  very  ill .'  " 

"  The  pretty  flower ! "  cried  Susan,  wringing  her 
hands.  "  has  took  the  fancy  that  he'd  like  to  see  hi^ 
old  nurse,  and  I've  come  to  bring  her  to  his  bedside. 
Mrs.  Staggs's  of  Polly  Toodle's  Gardens,  some  on* 
pray  I " 


/ 

318  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

Greatly  ii  oved  by  what  he  heard,  and  calching  Susan'd 
earnestness  immediately.  Waiter,  now  that  he  understood 
the  nature  of  ^er  errand,  daslied  into  Ii  with  such  ardor 
liiat  the  coachman  had  enough  to  do  to  follow  closely  aa 
he  ran  before,  inquiring  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
the  way  to  Staggs's  Gardens. 
V  There  was  no  such  place  as  Staggs's  Gardens.  It  hail 
^  vanished  from  the  earth.  Where  the  old  rotten  sum- 
mer-houses once  had  stood,  palaces  now  reared  their 
heads,  and  granite  columns  of  gigantic  girth  opened  a 
vista  to  the  railway  world  beyond.  The  miserable  waste 
'-  ground,  where  the  refuse  matter  had  been  heaped  of 
yore,  was  swallowed  up  and  gone  ;  and  in  its  frowsy 
Btead  were  tiers  of  warehouses,  crammed  with  rich  goods 
and  costly  merchandise.  The  old  by-streets  now  swarmed 
with  passengers  and  vehicles  of  every  kind  :  the  new 
streets  that  had  stopped  disheartened  in  the  mud  and 
wagon-ruts,  formed  towns  within  themselves,  originating 
wholesome  comforts  and  conveniences  belonging  to  them- 
selves, and  never  tried  nor  thought  of  until  they  s[)rufig 
into  existence.  Bridges  that  had  led  to  nothing,  led  to 
villas,  gardens,  churches,  healthy  public  walks.  The 
carcasses  of  houses,  and  beginnings  of  new  thorough- 
fares, had  started  off  upon  the  line  at  steam's  own  speed, 
and  shot  away  into  the  country  in  a  monster  train. 

As  to  the  neighborhood  which  had  hesitated  to  ac- 
knowledge the  railroad  in  its  straggling  days,  that  hail 
gr()wn  wi.se  and  penitent,  as  any  Christian  might  in  such 
n  case,  and  now  boasted  of  its  powerful  and  prosperous 
relation.  There  were  railway  patterns  in  its  drapers' 
shops,  and  railway  journals  in  the  windows  of  its  news- 
men. There  were  railway  hotels,  coffee-houses,  lodg- 
ing-houses, boarding-houses  ;  railway  plans,  maps,  viewfi» 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  819 

^iTappers,  bottle.*,  sandwicli-lwxes^  and  time-tables  ;  rail, 
way  liackney-coacli  and  cab-stands ;  railway  omnibuses, 
railway  streets  and  buildings,  railway  hangers-on  and 
parasites,  and  flatterers  out  of  all  calculation.  There 
was  even  railway  time  obsei-ved  in  clocks,  as  if  the  sun 
itself  had  given  in.  Among  the  vanquished  was  ilie 
master  chimney-sweeper,  whilom  incredulous  at  Staggs's 
Gardens,  wlio  now  lived  in  a  stuccoed  house  three  stories 
high,  and  gave  himself  out,  with  golden  flourishes  upon 
a  varnished  board,  as  contractor  for  the  cleansing  of  rail- 
way chimneys  by  maciiinery. 

To  and  from  the  heart  of  this  great  change,  all  day 
and  night,  throbbing  currents  rushed  and  returned  in- 
t-essantly  like  its  life's  blood.  Crowds  of  people,  and 
mountains  of  goods,  departing  and  arriving  scores  upon 
scores  of  timt.'s  in  every  four-and-twenty  hours,  produced 
a  fermentation  in  the  place  that  was  always  in  action. 
The  very  houses  seemed  disposed  to  pack  up  and  take 
I  trips.  Wonderful  members  of  Parliament,  who,  little 
more  than  twenty  years  before,  had  made  tiiemselves 
merry  with  the  wild  railroad  theories  of  engineers,  and 
given  them  the  liveliest  rubs  in  cross-examination,  went 
down  into  the  north  with  their  watches  in  their  hand:?, 
and  sent  on  messages  before  by  the  electric  telegraph 
to  say  that  they  were  coming.  Night  and  day  the  con- 
quering engines  rumbled  at  their  distant  work,  or,  ad- 
vancing smoothly  to  their  journey's  end,  and  gliding  like 
lame  dragons  into  the  allotted  corners  grooved  out  to  liw' 
inch  for  their  reception,  stood  bubbling  and  trembling 
there,  making  the  walls  quake,  as  if  they  were  dilating 
with  the  secret  knowledge  of  great  powers  yet  unsus- 
pected in  them,  and  strong  purposes  not  yet  achieved. 

But  Staggs's  Grardens  had  been  cut  up  root  and  branch 


^20  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Oh  woe  the  day !  when  **  not  a  rood  of  EngLsh  ground  " 
•^laid  out  in  Staggs's  Gardens  —  is  secure  I 

At  last,  after  much  fruitless  inquiry,  Walter,  followed 
by  the  coach  and  Susan,  found  a  man  who  had  once 
"^  resided  in  that  vanished  land,  and  who  was  no  other 
than  the  master  sweep  before  referred  to,  grown  stout, 
arid  knocking  a  double  knock  at  his  own  door.  11^ 
knowed  Toodle,  he  said,  well.  Belonged  to  the  rail 
road,  didn't  he? 

"Yes,  sir,  yes!"  cried  Susan  Nipper  from  the  coach- 
window. 

Where  did  he  live  now  ?  hastily  inquired  Walter. 

He    lived   in    the    company's   own    buildings,    second 

turning   to  the   right,  down   the  yard,  cross  over,  and 

take    the   second   on   the   right    again.     It   was   number 

eleven  ;  they  couldn't  mistake  it ;  but  if  tliey  did,  they 

V"  had  only  to  ask  for  Toodle,  Engine  Fireman,]  and  any 

/    one  would  show  them  which  was  his  house.     At  this 

y     unexpected  stroke  of  success,  Susan  Nipper  dismounted 

from    the    coach    with    all    speed,   took    Walter's   arm, 

and  set  off  at  a  breathless  pace  on  foot;  leaving  the 

coach  there  to  await  their  return. 

"  Has  the  little  boy  been  long  ill,  Susan  ? "  inquired 
Walter,  as  they  hurried  on. 

"Ailing  for  a  deal  of  time,  but  no  one  knew  how 
much, "  said  Susan  ;  adding,  with  excessive  sharpness, 
'Oh,  them  Blimbers!" 

"Blimbers?"  echoed  Walter. 

"  I  couldn't  forgive  myself  at  such  a  time  as  this, 
Mr.  Walter, "  said  Susan,  "  and  when  there's  so  much 
lerious  distress  to  think  about,  if  I  rested  hard  on  any 
one,  especially  on  them  that  little  darling  Paul  spoaka 
well   of,   but   I  may  wish  that  the  family  was  set  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ^ 

tvork    in   a   stony    soil    to    make    new    roads,   anil    that 
M'-^s  Blimber  went  in  front,  and  had  the  pickaxe!" 

Miss  Nipper  then  took  breath,  and  went  on  faslei 
llian  before,  as  if  this  extraordinary  aspiration  had  re- 
lieved her.  Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  no  bivalJi 
of  his  own  to  spare,  hurried  along  without  asking  any 
miire  questions;  and  they  soon,  in  their  impationte, 
burst  in  at  a  iitlle  door  and  came  into  a  clean  parlor 
full  of  children. 

"  Where's  IMrs.  Richards  !  "  exclaimed  Susan  Kipper, 
looking  round.  "  Oh  Mrs.  Richards,  Mrs.  Richards, 
come  along  with  me,  my  dear  creefur!" 

"  Why,  if  it  a'n't  Susan ! "  cried  Polly  rising  with 
her  honest  face  and  motherly  figure  from  among  the 
group,  in  great  surprise. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  it's  me, '"  said  Susan,  "  and  I 
wish  it  wasn't,  though  I  may  not  seem  to  flatter  when 
I  say  so,  but  little  Master  Paul  is  very  ill,  and  told 
his  Pa  to-day  that  he  would  like  to  see  the  face  of 
his  old  nurse,  and  him  and  Miss  Floy  hope  you'll  come 
along  with  me  —  and  Mr.  Walter,  Mrs.  Richards  — 
forgetting  what  is  past,  and  do  a  kindness  to  the  sweet 
Jear  that  is  withering  away.  Oh,  Mrs.  Richards,  with- 
Cling  away!"  Susan  Nipper  crying,  Polly  shed  teara 
lo  see  her,  and  to  hear  what  she  had  said;  and  all 
!h(;  children  gathered  round  (including  numbers  of 
new  babies)  ;  and  Mr.  Toodle  who  had  just  come  home 
from  Birmingham,  and  was  eating  his  dinner  out  ol"  a 
basin,  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  put  on  hid 
wife's  bonnet  and  shawl  for  her,  which  were  hanging 
ip  behind  the  door;  then  tapped  her  on  the  back; 
and  said  with  more  fatherly  feeling  than  eloquence, 
"  Polly  !  cut  away  !  " 
Voi.  i.  21 


822  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

So  fbey  got  back  to  the  coach,  long  befo.e  the  ooacb- 
man  expected  them ;  and  Walter  putting  Susan  and 
IMrs.  Richards  inside,  took  his  seat  on  the  box  himself 
(hat  there  might  be  no  more  mistakes,  and  deposited 
Miem  safely  in  the  hall  of  Mr.  Dombey's  house  —  where 
b}'  the  by,  he  saw  a  mighty  nosegay  lying,  which  re 
miudi.'d  him  of  the  one  Captain  Cuttle  had  purchasea 
in  his  company  that  morning.  He  would  have  lingered 
to  know  more  of  the  young  invalid,  or  waited  any 
length  of  time  to  sec  if  he  could  rendei:  the  least  ser- 
vice ;  but,  painfully  sensible  that  such  conduct  would 
be  looked  upon  by  Mi-.  Dombey  as  presumptuous  and 
forwai'd,  he  turned  slowly,  sadly,  anxiously,  away. 

He  had  not  gone  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  door, 
when  a  man  came  running  after  him,  and  begged  hinn 
to  return.  Walter  retraced  his  steps  as  quickly  as  he 
could,  and  entered  the  gloomy  house  with  a  sorrowful 
forebodins. 


jj  am  b  f  n  i '^^^,pxnt . 

■V' 

Fin;t  ajijiparaiice  of  ^inah^' 


^V4i>tu'  M^^.ii^u^^e-\>i/n,j  a,  ci.,t^imk  aaJXlb,,f*lm  n  al#<M>»a'Jtr 


DOMBEY  AND    SOK 


Toums  n. 


j 


DOMBEY    AND    SON. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WHAT   THE   WAVES    WERE   ALWAYS   8AYINO. 

Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  Ho  laj 
there,  listening  to  the  noises  in  the  street,  quite  trac* 
quilly ;  not  caring  much  how  the  time  went,  but  watch- 
ing it  and  watching  everything  about  him  with  observing 
eyes. 

When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room  through  the 
rustling  blinds,  and  quivered  on  the  opposite  wall  hke 
golden  water,  he  knew  that  evening  was  coming  on,  and 
that  the  sky  was  red  and  beautiful.  As  the  reflection 
died  away,  and  a  gloom  went  creeping  up  the  wall,  he 
watched  it  deepen,  deepen,  deepen,  into  night.  Then 
he  thouglit  how  the  long  streets  were  dotted  with  lamps, 
and  how  the  peaceful  stars  were  shining  overhead.  His 
fancy  had  a  strange  tendency  to  wander  to  the  river, 
which  he  knew  was  flowing  through  the  great  city  :  and 
now  he  thought  how  black  it  was,  and  how  deep  it  would 
look,  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars  —  and  more  than  all, 
how  steadily  it  rolled  away  to  meet  the  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the 
street  became  so  rare  that  he  could  hear  them  coming, 
oount  them  as  they  paused,  and  lose  them  in  the  hollow 


6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

distance,  he  would  lie  and  watch  the  many-colored  ring 
about  the  candle,  and  wait  patiently  for  day.  His  only 
trouble  was,  the  swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt  forced, 
Bometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it  —  to  stem  it  with  his  childish 
hands  —  or  choke  its  way  with  sand  —  and  when  he  saw 
it  coming  on,  resistless,  he  cried  out !  But  a  word  from 
Florence,  who  was  always  at  his  side,  restored  him  to 
himself;  and  leaning  his  poor  head  upon  her  breast,  he 
told  Floy  of  liis  dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched  for 
the  sun  ;  and  when  its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in 
the  room,  he  pictured  to  himself — pictured!  he  saw  — 
the  high  church  towers  rising  up  into  the  morning  sky, 
the  town  reviving,  waking,  starting  into  life  once  more, 
the  river,  glistening  as  it  rolled  (but  rolling  fast  as  ever), 
and  the  country  bright  with  dew.  Familiar  sounds  and 
cries  came  by  degrees  into  the  stieet  below :  the  servants 
in  the  house  were  roused  and  busy ;  faces  looked  in  at 
the  door,  and  voices  asked  his  attendants  softly  how  he 
was.  Paul  always  answered  for  himself,  "  I  am  better. 
I  am  a  great  deal  better,  thank  you  !     Tell  papa  so  ! " 

By  little  and  little,  he  got  tired  of  the  bustle  of  the 
day,  the  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  and  people  passing 
and  re-passing ;  and  would  fall  asleep,  or  be  troubled 
with  a  restless  and  uneasy  sense  again  —  the  child  could 
hardly  tell  whether  this  were  in  his  sleeping  or  hia 
.  waking  moments  —  of  that  rushing  river.  "  Why,  will 
^  it  never  stop,  Floy  ?  "  he  would  sometimes  ask  her.  "  It 
is  bearing  me  away,  I  think  !  " 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  reassure  him  ;  and 
it  was  his  daily  delight  to  make  her  lay  her  head  down 
on  his  pillow,  and  take  some  rest. 

*'  You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy.     Let  me  watcli 


POMBEY   AND   SON.  9 

you.  iiow  !  "  They  would  prop  him  up  with  ^usliions  in 
a  coiner  of  his  bed,  and  there  he  would  recline  the  while 
she  lay  beside  him  :  bending  forward  oftentimes  to  kiss 
her,  and  whispering  to  those  who  were  near  that  she  was 
lired,  and  how  she  had  sat  up  so  many  nights  beside 
him. 

Thus,  the  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  heat  and  light,  woulj 
gradually  decline  ;  and  again  the  golden  water  would  be 
dancing  on  the  wall. 

He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors  — 
they  used  to  assemble  down  stairs,  and  come  up  together 
—  and  the  room  was  so  quiet,  and  Paul  was  so  observant 
of  them  (though  he  never  asked  of  anybody  what  they 
said),  that  he  even  knew  the  difference  in  the  sound  of 
their  watches.  But  his  interest  centred  in  Sir  Parker 
Peps,  who  always  took  his  seat  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 
For  Paul  had  heard  them  say  long  ago,  that  that  gentle- 
man had  been  with  his  mama  when  she  clasped  Florence 
in  her  arms,  and  died.  And  he  could  not  forget  it,  now. 
He  liked  him  for  it.     He  was  not  afraid. 

The  people  round  him  changed  as  unaccountably  as 
on  that  first  night  at  Doctor  Bliraber's  —  except  Flor- 
ence ;  Florence  never  changed  —  and  what  had  been 
Sir  Parker  Peps,  was  now  his  father,  silting  with  Ida 
head  upon  his  hand.  Old  Mrs.  Pipchin  dozing  in  an 
easy  chair,  often  changed  to  Miss  Tox,  or  his  aunt ;  and 
Paul  was  quite  content  to  shut  his  eyes  again,  and  see 
what  happened  next  without  emotion.  But  this  figure 
with  its  head  upon  its  hand  returned  so  often,  and  re- 
mained so  long,  and  sat  so  still  and  solemn,  never  speak- 
ing, never  being  spoken  to,  and  rarely  lifting  up  its  face, 
that  Paul  began  to  wonder  languidly,  if  it  were  real 
and  in  the  night-time  saw  it  sitting  there,  with  fear. 


10  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

«  Floy  !  "  be  said.     «  What  is  that  ?  " 

«  Where,  dearest  ?  " 

"  There  !  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed." 

"  There's  nothing  there,  except  papa  ?  " 

The  figure  lifted  up  its  head,  and  rose,  and  coming 
to  tlie  bedside,  said  :  "  My  own  boy  !  Don't  you  know 
me?" 

Paul  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  thought,  was  this  hia 
father  ?  But  tlie  face,  so  altered  to  his  thinking,  thrilled 
while  he  gazed,  as  if  it.  were  in  pain  ;  and  before  he 
could  reach  out  both  his  hands  to  take  it  between  them, 
and  draw  it  towards  him,  the  figure  turned  away  quickly 
from  the  little  bed,  and  went  out  at  the  door. 

Paul  looked  at  Florence  with  a  fluttering  heart,  but  he 
knew  what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  stopped  her  with 
his  face  against  her  lips.  The  next  time  he  observed 
the  figure  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  he  called  to  it. 

"  Don't  be  so  sorry  for  me,  dear  papa  !  Indeed  I  am 
quite  happy ! " 

His  father  coming,  and  bending  down  to  him  —  which 
he  did  quickly,  and  without  first  pausing  by  the  bedside 
—  Paul  held  him  round  the  neck,  and  repeated  those 
words  to  him  several  times,  and  very  earnestly ;  and 
Paul  never  saw  him  in  his  room  again  at  any  time, 
whether  it  were  day  or  night,  but  he  called  out,  "  Don't 
be  so  sorry  for  me  !  Indeed  I  am  quite  happy  !  "  This 
was  the  beginning  of  his  always  saying  in  the  morning 
that  he  was  a  great  deal  better,  and  that  they  were  to 
tell  his  father  so. 

How  many  times  the  golden  water  danced  upon  the 
wall;  how  many  nights  the  dark,  dafk  river  rolled  towards 
\he  sea  in  spite  of  him ;  Paul  never  counted,  never 
lought   to  know.     If  their  kindness  or  his  sense  of  it> 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  1% 

oould  have  increased,  they  were  more  kind,  and  he  more 
grateful  every  day  ;  but  whether  they  were  many  days 
or  few,  appeared  of  little  moment  now  to  the  gentle  boy. 

One  night  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  mother,  and 
her  picture  in  the  drawing-room  down  stairs,  and  had 
thought  she  must  have  loved  sweet  Florence  better  than 
his  father  did,  to  have  held  her  in  her  arras  when  shj 
felt  that  she  was  dying  —  for  even  he,  her  brother,  who'' 
had  such  dear  love  for  her,  could  have  no  greater  wish 
than  that.  The  train  of  thought  suggested  to  him  to 
inquire  if  he  had  ever  seen  his  mother  ?  for  he  could 
not  remember  whether  they  had  told  him  yes  or  no,  the 
river  running  very  fast,  and  confusing  his  mind. 

"  Floy,  did  I  ever  see  mama  ?  " 

"  No,  darling,  why  ?  " 

"  Did  I  never  see  any  kind  face,  like  mama's,  looking 
at  me;  when  I  was  a  baby,  Floy  ?  " 

He  asked,  incredulously  as  if  he  had  some  vision  of 
a  face  before  him. 

"Oh  yes,  dear!" 

"  Whose,  Floy  ?  " 

"  Your  old  nurse's.     Often." 

"  And  where  is  my  old  nurse  !  "  said  Paul.  "  Is  she 
dead  too  ?     Floy,  are  we  all  dead,  except  you  ?"  ^ 

There  was  a  hurry  in  the  room  for  an  instant  — 
longer,  perhaps  ;  but  it  seemed  no  more  —  then  all  was 
Btill  again ;  and  Florence,  with  her  face  quite  colorless, 
but  smiling,  held  his  head  upin  her  arm.  Her  arm 
trembled  very  much. 

"  Show  me  that  old  nurse,  Floy,  if  you  please  I  " 

**  She  is  not  here,  darling.  She  shall  come  to-mor 
row-." 

«  Thank  you,  Floy  !  " 


t2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  those  words,  and  fell  asleep 
When  he  awoke  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day 
was  clear  and  waiin.  He  lay  a  little,  looking  at  the 
windows,  which  were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling  in 
fhe  air,  and  waving  to  and  fro:  then  he  said.  "Floy, 
's  it  to-morrow  ?     Is  she  come  ?  " 

Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it 
was  Susan.  Paul  thought  he  heard  her  telling  him 
when  he  had  closed  his  eyes  again,  that  she  would  soon 
be  back ;  but  he  did  not  open  them  to  see.  She  kept 
her  word  —  perhaps  she  had  never  been  <iway  —  but  the 
next  thing  that  happened  was  a  noise  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke  —  woke  mind  and  body  — 
and  sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  them  now  about 
him.  There  was  no  gray  mist  before  them,  as  there  had 
been  sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew  them  every  one, 
and  allied  them  by  their  names. 

"And  who  is  this?  Is  this  my  old  nurse?"  said  the 
child,  regarding  with  a  radiant  smile,  a  figure  coming 
in. 

Yes,  yes.  No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those 
t-^ars  at  sight  of  him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy, 
her  pretty  boy,  her  own  poor  blighted  child.  No  other 
woman  would  have  stooped  down  by  his  bed,  and  taken 
up  his  wasted  hand,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  and  breast, 
as  one  who  had  some  right  to  fondle  it.  No  other 
woman  would  have  so  forgotten  everybody  there  but 
him  and  Floy,  and  been  st  full  of  tenderness  and  pity. 

"  Floy  1  this  is  a  kind  good  face ! "  said  Paul.  **  I 
am  glad  to  see  it  again.  Don't  go  away,  old  nurse  ! 
3tay  here!" 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  lieard  a  name 
he  knew. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  1& 

"Who  was  that,  who  said  'WaUer'?"  he  asked, 
looking  round.  "Some  one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here? 
I  should  like  to  see  him  very  much.  " 

Nobody  replied  directly  ;  but  his  father  soon  said  to 
Susan,  "Call  him  back,  then:  let  him  come  up !"  Af- 
ter a  short  pause  of  expectation,  during  which  he  looked 
with  smiling  interest  and  wonder  on  his  nurse,  and  saw 
that  she  had  not  forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was  brought 
into  the  room.  His  open  face  and  manner,  and  hia 
cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made  him  a  favorite  with 
Paul ;  and  when  Paul  saw  him,  he  stretched  out  his 
hand,  and  said,  "  Good-by  ! " 

"  Good-by,  my  child ! "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurrying 
to  his  bed's  head.     "  Not  good-by  !  " 

For  an  instant  Paul  looked  at  her  with  the  wist- 
ful face  with  which  he  had  so  often  gazed  upon  her 
in  his  corner  by  the  fire.  "Ah  yes,"  he  said,  plac- 
idly, "  good-by  !  Walter  dear,  good-by  ! "  —  turning  his 
head  to  where  he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand  again. 
"  Where  is  papa  ?  " 

He  felt  his  father's  breath  upon  his  cheek,  before 
the  words  had  parted  from  his  lips. 

"  Remember  Walter,  dear  papa,"  he  whispered,  look- 
,og  in  his  face.     "  Remember  Walter.     1  was  fond  of    , 
Walter ! "     The  feeble  hand  waved  in  the  a'r,  as  if  it 
cried  "  good-by  !  "  to  Walter  once  again. 

"  Now  lay  ine  down, "  he  said,  "  and  Floy,  oorae  close 
to  ine,  and  let  me  see  you  ! " 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each 
Other,  and  the  golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell 
upon  them,  locked  together.  "  '^'^■t/^ 

"  How  fast  the  river  runs,  between   its  green  banks    )(  <^^ 
find   the   rushes,    Floy !     But   it's  very   near   the  sea. 
I  hear  the  waves  !     They  always  said  so ! " 


14  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boa< 
Upon  the  stioam  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green 
the  banks  were  now,  how  bright  the  flowers  growing 
on  them,  and  how  tall  the  rushes  I  Now  the  boat  was 
out  at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly  on.  And  now  there 
was  a  shore  before  him.     Who  stood  on  the  bank  !  — 

He  put  his  hands  together,  aa  he  had  been  used  to 
do  at  his  prayers.  He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do 
it;  but  they  saw  him  fold  them  so,  behind  her  neck. 

**  Mama  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the  face ! 
But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is 
not  divine  enough.  The  light  about  the  head  is  shin- 
ing on  me  as  I  go!" 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  Jx^sin,  and 
nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  olti  fashion ! 
The  fashion  that  came  in  with  our  first  garments,  and 
will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course, 
and  the  wide  firmament  is  BoUed  up  like  a  scroll.  The 
old,  old  fashion  —  Death  ! 

Oh  thank  Grod,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older  fashion 
yet,  of  Immortality !  And  look  upon  us,  angels  of  young 
children,  with  regards  not  quite  estranged,  when  the 
Bwifl  river  bears  us  to  the  ocean! 


LOMBEY  AND  SQ^.  15 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

CAITAIN     CUTTLE     DOES     A     LI  FTLK     BDSLNESS     FOR     THE 
YOUXO    PEOl'LE. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  the  exercise  of  that  surprising 
talent  for  deep-laid  and  unfathomable  scheming,  with 
whiah  (as  is  not  unusual  in  men  of  transparent  sim- 
plicity) he  sincerely  believed  himself  to  be  endowed  by 
nature,  had  gone  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house  on  the  eventful 
Sunday,  winking  all  the  way  as  a  vent  for  his  super- 
fluous sagacity,  and  had  presented  himself  in  the  full 
lustre  of  the  ankle-jacks  before  the  eyes  of  Towlinson. 
Hearing  from  that  individual,  to  his  great  concern,  of 
the  impending  calamity,  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  delicacy, 
sheered  off  again  confounded;  merely  handing  in  the 
nosegay  as  a  small  mark  of  his  solicitude,  and  leaving 
his  respectful  compliments  for  the  family  in  general, 
which  he  accompanied  with  an  expression  of  his  hope 
that  they  would  lay  their  heads  well  to  the  wind  un- 
der existing  circumstances,  and  a  friendly  intimation 
that  he  would  "  look  up  again  "  to-morrow. 

The  captain's  compliments  were  never  heard  of  any 
more.  The  captain's  nosegay,  after  lying  in  the  hnll 
all  night,  was  swept  into  the  dust-bin  next  morning; 
and  the  captain's  sly  arrangement,  involved  in  one  catas- 
trophe with  greater  hopes  and  loftier  designs,  was  crushed 
to  pieces.     So,  when  an  avalanche  bears  down  a  mouo- 


16  l>OMBEY  AND  SON. 

tain-forest,  twigs  and  bushes  suffer  with  the  trees,  and 
»11  perish  together. 

When  Walter  returned  home  on  the  Sunday  even- 
ing from  his  long  walk,  and  its  memorable  close,  he 
was  too  much  occupied  at  first  by  the  tidings  he  had 
to  give  them,  and  by  the  emotions  naturally  awakened 
ill  his  breast  by  the  scene  through  which  he  had  passed, 
to  observe  either  that  his  uncle  was  evidently  unac- 
quainted with  the  intelligence  the  captain  had  under- 
taken to  impart,  or  that  the  captain  made  signals  with 
his  hook,  warning  him  to  avoid  the  subject.  Not  that 
the  captain's  signals  were  calculated  to  have  proved  very 
comprehensible,  however  attentively  observed  ;  for,  like 
those  Chinese  sages  who  are  said  in  their  conferences  to 
write  certain  learned  words  in  the  air  that  are  wholly 
impossible  of  pronunciation,  the  captain  made  such  waves 
and  flourishes  as  nobody  without  a  previous  knowledge 
of  his  mystery,  would  have  been  at  all  likely  to  un- 
derstand. 

Captain  Cuttle,  however,  becoming  cognizant  of  what 
had  happened,  relinquished  these  attempts,  as  he  per- 
ceived the  slender  chance  that  now  existed  of  his  being 
able  to  obtain  a  little  easy  chat  with  Mr.  Dombey  be- 
fore the  period  of  Walter's  departure.  But  in  admitting 
to  himself,  with  a  disappointed  and  crest-fallen  counte- 
nance, that  Sol  Gills  must  be  told,  and  that  Waller 
must  go  —  taking  the  case  for  the  present  as  he  found 
it,  and  not  having  it  enlightened  or  improved  beforehand 
by  the  knowing  management  of  a  friend  —  the  captain 
btill  felt  an  unabated  confidence  that  he,  Ned  Cuttle, 
was  the  man  for  Mr.  Dombey ;  and  that,  to  set  Walter's 
Fortunes  quite  square,  nothing  was  wanted  but  that  they 
two  should  come  together.     For  the  captain  never  could 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  17 

forget  how  well  he  and  Mr.  Dorabey  had  got  on  at  Brigh- 
ton ;  wnh  what  nicety  each  of  them  had  put  in  a  word  when 
it  was  wanted ;  how  exactly  they  had  taken  one  anoth- 
er's measure ;  nor  how  Ned  Cuttle  had  pointed  out  that 
resource  in  the  first  extremity,  and  had  bi'ought  the  in- 
terview to  the  desired  termination.  On  all  these  grounds 
the  captain  soothed  himself  with  thinking  that  though 
Ned  Cuttle  was  forced  by  the  pi-essure  of  events  to 
"  stand  by  "  almost  useless  for  the  present,  Ned  would 
fetch  lip  with  a  wet  sail  in  good  time,  and  carry  all 
before  him. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  good-natured  delusion, 
Captain  Cuttle  even  went  so  far  as  to  revolve  in  his  own 
bosom,  while  he  sat  looking  at  Walter  and  listening 
with  a  tear  on  his  shirt-collar  to  what  he  related,  whether 
it  might  not  be  at  once  genteel  and  polite  to  give  Mr. 
Dombey  a  verbal  invitation,  whenever  they  should  meet, 
to  come  and  cut  his  mutton  in  Brig  Place  on  some 
day  of  his  own  naming,  and  enter  on  the  question  of  hia 
young  friend's  prospects  over  a  social  glass.  But  the 
uncertain  temper  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  the  possi- 
bility of  her  setting  up  her  rest  in  the  passage  during 
such  an  entertainment,  and  there  delivering  some  hom- 
ily of  an  uncomplimentary  nature,  operated  as  a  check 
on  the  captain's  hospitable  thoughts,  and  rendered  him 
timid  of  giving  them  encouragement. 

On3  fact  was  quite  clear  to  the  captain,  as  "Walter, 
witling  thoughtfully  over  his  untasted  dinner,  dwelt  on 
all  that  had  happened ;  namely,  that  however  Walter's 
modesty  might  stand  in  the  way  of  his  perceiving  it 
himself,  he  was,  as  one  might  say,  a  member  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  family.  He  had  been,  in  his  own  person, 
connected  with  the  incident  he  so  pathetically  described 
VOL.  11.  a 


18  DOMBEI   AND  SON. 

he  Had  been  bj  name  remembered  and  commended  in 
close  association  with  it;  and  his  fortunes  must  hava 
a  particular  interest  in  his  employer's  eyes.  If  the 
captain  had'  any  lurking  doubt  whatever  of  his  own 
conclusions,  he  had  not  the  least  doubt  that  they  were 
good  conclusions  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  instru- 
ment-maker. Therefore  he  availed  himself  of  so  favor- 
able a  moment  for  breaking  the  West  Indian  intelligence 
to  his  old  friend,  as  a  piece  of  extraordinary  preferment ; 
declaring  that  for  his  part  he  would  freely  give  a  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  (if  he  had  it)  for  Walter's  gain 
in  the  long-run,  and  that  he  had  no  doubt  such  an 
investment  would  yield  a  handsome  premium. 

Solomon  Gills  was  at  first  stunned  by  the  commu- 
nication, which  fell  upon  the  little  back-parlor  like  a 
thunderbolt,  and  tore  up  the  hearth  savagely.  But  the 
captain  flashed  such  golden  prospects  before  his  dim 
sight:  hinted  so  mysteriously  at  Whittingtonian  conse- 
quences :  laid  such  emphasis  on  what  Walter  had  just 
now  told  them :  and  appealed  to  it  so  confidently  as  a 
corroboration  of  his  predictions,  and  a  great  advance 
towards  the  realization  of  the  romantic  legend  of  Lovely 
Peg :  that  he  bewildered  the  old  man.  Walter,  for  his 
part,  feigned  to  be  so  full  of  hope  and  ardor,  and  so 
sure  of  coming  home  again  soon,  and  backed  up  tbd 
captain  with  such  expressive  shakings  of  his  head  and 
rubbings  of  his  hands,  that  Solomon,  looking  first  at  Li.ii 
and  then  at  Captain  Cuttle,  began  to  think  he  uugl.t 
to  be  transported  with  joy. 

"  But  Fm  behind  the  time,  you  understand,"  he  ob- 
served in  apology,  passing  bis  hand  nervously  dowii 
the  whole  row  of  bright  buttons  on  his  coat,  and  thrfi 
ap  again,  as  if  they  were  beads   and  he   were    telling 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  If 

Ihem  twice  over:  "and  I  would  rather  have  my  dear 
boy  here.  It's  an  old-fashioned  notion,  I  dare  say.  He 
was  always  fond  of  the  sea.  He's"  —  and  he  looked 
wistfully  at  Walter  —  "he's  glad  to  "-o." 

"  Uncle  Sol !  "  cried  Walter,  quickly,  "  if  you  say 
(hat,  I  won't  go.  No,  Captain  Cuttle,  I  won't.  If  my 
tincle  thinks  I  could  be  glad  to  leave  him,  though  1 
was  going  to  be  made  Governor  of  all  the  Islands  in 
the   West  Indies,  that's  enough.     I'm  a  fixture." 

'*  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain.  "  Steady !  Sol 
Gills,  take  an  observation  of  your  nevy." 

Following  with  his  eyes  the  majestic  action  of  the 
captain's  hook,  the  old  man  looked  at  Walter. 

"  Here  is  a  certain  craft,"  said  the  captain,  with  a 
magnificent  sense  of  the  allegory  into  which  he  was 
soaring,  "  a-going  to  put  out  on  a  certain  voyage.  What 
name  is  wrote  upon  that  craft  indelibly?  Is  it  The 
Gay  ?  or,"  said  the  captain,  raising  his  voice  as  much 
as  to  say,  observe  the  point  of  this,  "  is  it  The  Gills  ?  " 

"  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  drawing  Walter  to  his  side, 
and  taking  his  arm  tenderly  through  his,  "  I  know. 
I  know.  Of  course  I  know  that  Wally  considers  me 
more  than  himself  always.  That's  in  my  mind.  When 
I  say  he  is  glad  to  go,  I  mean  I  hope  he  is.  Eh? 
look  you,  Ned,  and  you  too,  Wally,  my  dear,  this  is 
new  and  unexpected  to  me;  and  I'm  afraid  my  being 
behind  the  time,  and  poor,  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  le 
it  really  good  fortune  for  him,  do  you  tell  me,  now .'' " 
said  the  old  man,  looking  anxiously  from  one  to  the 
other.  "  Really  and  truly  ?  1  can  reconcile  myself  to 
almost  anything  that  advances  Wally,  but  I  won't  have 
Wally  putting  himself  at.  any  disadvantage  for  me,  or 
keei)ing  anything  from  me.     You,   Ned    Cuttle!"   said 


20  DoMBEY  A^D  SON. 

the  old  man,  fastening  on  the  captain,  to  the  manifest 
confusion  of  that  diplomatist ;  "  are  yon  dealing  plainly 
by  your  old  friend  ?  Speak  out,  Ned  Cuttle.  Is  there 
anything  behind  ?  Ought  he  to  go  ?  How  do  yoa 
know  it  first,  and  why  ? " 

As  it  was  a  contest  of  affection  and  self-denial,  Waller 
struck  in  with  infinite  effect,  to  the  captain's  relief; 
and  between  them  they  tolerably  reconciled  old  So} 
Gills,  by  continued  talking,  to  the  project;  or  rather 
so  confused  him,  that  nothing,  not  even  the  pain  of 
separation,  was  distinctly  clear  to  his  mind. 

He  had  not  much  time  to  balance  the  matter ;  for 
on  the  very  next  day,  Walter  received  from  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager,  the  necessary  credentials  for  his  passage 
and  outfit,  together  with  the  information  that  the  Son 
and  Heir  would  sail  in  a  fortnight,  or  within  a  day  or 
two  afterwards  at  latest.  In  the  hurry  of  preparation: 
which  Walter  purposely  enhanced  as  much  as  possible: 
the  old  man  lost  what  little  self-possession  he  ever  had ; 
and  so  the  time  of  departure  drew  on  rapidly. 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  make  himself  ac- 
quainted with  all  that  passed,  through  inquiries  of  Wal- 
ter from  day  to  day,  found  the  time  still  tending  on 
towards  his  going  away,  without  any  occasion  offering 
itself,  or  seeming  likely  to  offer  itself,  for  a  better  under- 
standing of  his  position.  It  was  after  much  considera- 
tion of  this  fact,  and  much  pondering  over  such  an  un« 
fortunate  combination  of  circumstances,  that  a  bright 
idea  occurred  to  the  captain.  Suppose  he  made  a  <^I 
on  Mr.  Carker,  and  tried*  to  find  out  from  him  how  the 
land  really  lay ! 

Captain  Cuttle  liked  this  idea  very  much.  It  came 
upon  him  in  a  moment  of  inspiration,  as  he  was  smoking 


DOMBEY  jLND  SON.  » 

BU  early  pipe  in  Brig-place  after  breakfast ;  and  it  waa 
worthy  of  the  tobacco.  It  would  quiet  his  conscience, 
which  was  an  honest  one,  and  was  made  a  little  uneasy  by 
what  Walter  had  confided  to  him,  and  what  Sol  Gills 
had  said  ;  and  it  would  be  a  deep,  shrewd  act  of  friend- 
ship, lie  would  sound  Mr.  Carker  carefully,  and  say 
much  or  little,  just  as  he  read  that  gentleman's  character, 
and  discovered  that  they  got  on  well  together  or  the 
reverse. 

Accordingly,  without  the  fear  of  Walter  before  his 
eyes  (who  he  knew  was  at  home  packing).  Captain 
Cuttle  again  assumed  his  ankle-jacks  and  mourning 
brooch,  and  issued  forth  on  this  second  expedition.  He 
purchased  no  propitiatory  nosegay  on  the  present  occa- 
sion, as  he  was  going  to  a  place  of  business ;  but  he  put 
a  small  sunflower  in  his  button-hole  to  give  himself  an 
agreeable  relish  of  the  country ;  and  with  this,  and  the 
knobby  stick,  and  the  glazed  hat,  bore  down  upon  the 
offices  of  Dombey  and  Son. 

After  taking  a  glass  of  warm  rum-and-water  at  a 
tavern  close  by,  to  collect  his  thoughts,  the  captain  made 
a  rush  down  the  court  lest  its  good  effects  should  evapo* 
rate,  and  appeared  suddenly  to  Mr.  Perch. 

"  Matey,"  said  the  captain,  in  persuasive  accenta. 
*  One  of  your  governors  is  named  Carker." 

Mr.  Perch  admitted  it ;  but  gave  him  to  understand, 
as  in  official  duty  bound,  that  all  his  governors  were  en- 
gaged, and  never  expected  to  be  disengaged  any  more. 

"  Look'ee  here,  mate,"  said  the  captain  in  his  ear  j 
•*my  name's  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  captain  would  have  hooked  Perch  gently  to  him, 
but  Mr.  Perch  eluded  the  attempt ;  not  so  much  in  de- 
sign, as  in  starting  at  the  sudden  thought  that  such  a 


83  DOMBEY  AxNT)  son. 

weapon  nnexpectedly  exhibited  to  Mrs.  Perch  might,  in 
her  then  condition,  be  destructive  to  that  lady's  hopes. 

"  If  you'll  be  so  good  as  just  report  Cap'en  CuttU 
here,  when  you  get  a  chance,"  said  the  captain,  "  111 
wait." 

Saying  which,  the  captain  took  his  seat  on  Mr.  Perth's 
bracket,  and  drawing  out  his  handkerchief  from  the 
crown  of  the  glazed  hat,  which  he  jammed  between  his 
knees  (without  injury  to  its  shape,  for  nothing  human 
could  bend  it),  rubbed  his  head  well  all  over,  and  ap- 
peared refreshed.  He  subsequently  arranged  his  hair 
with  his  hook,  and  sat  looking  round  the  office,  contem- 
plating the  clerks  with  a  serene  aspect. 

The  captain's  equanimity  was  so  impenetrable,  and  he 
was  altogether  so  mysterious  a  being,  that  Perch  the 
messenger  was  daunted. 

"  What  name  was  it  ypa  said  ? "  asked  Mr.  Perch, 
bending  down  over  him  as  he  sat  on  the  bracket. 

"  Cap'en,"  in  a  deep  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  keeping  time  with  his  head. 

«  Cuttle." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  the  same  tone,  for  ha 
taught  it,  and  couldn't  help  it ;  the  captain,  in  his 
diplomacy,  was  so  impressive.  "  I'll  see  if  he's  dis- 
engaged now.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he  may  be  for 
a  minute." 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,  I  won't  detain  him  longer  than  a 
minute,"  said  the  captain,  nodding  with  all  the  weighty 
importance  that  he  felt  within  him.  Perch,  soon  return- 
ing, said,  "  Will  Captain  Cuttle  walk  this  way  ?  " 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  standing  on  the  hearth-rug 
before  the  empty  fire-place,  which  was  ornamented 
with  a  castellated  sheet  of  brown  paper,  looked  at  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  J| 

captain  as  he  came  in,  with  no  very  special  encourage* 
ment 

"  Mr.  Carker  ?  "  said  Captain  Cuttle. 

♦*  I  believe  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his 
teeth. 

The  captain  liked  his  answering  with  a  smile:  it 
looked  pleasant.  "You  see,"  began  the  captain,  roll- 
ing his  eyes  slowly  round  the  little  room,  and  taking 
in  as  much  of  it  as  his  shirt-collar  permitted ;  "  I'm 
a  seafaring  man  myself,  Mr.  Carker,  and  Wal'r,  as  is 
on  your  books  here,  is  a'most  a  son  of  mine." 

"  Walter  Gay  ? "  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his 
teeth  again. 

"  Wal'r  Gay  it  is,"  replied  the  captain,  "  right ! " 
The  captain's  manner  expressed  a  warm  approval  of 
Mr.  Carker's  quickness  of  perception.  "  I'm  a  intimate 
friend  of  his  and  his  uncle's.  Perhaps,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  you  may  have  heard  your  head-governor  mention 
my  name  ?  —  Captain  Cuttle." 

"  No  ! "  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  still  wider  demonstra- 
tion than  before. 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  captain,  "  I've  the  pleasure  of 
his  acquaintance.  I  waited  upon  him  down  on  the  Sus- 
sex coast  there,  with  my  young  friend  Wal'r,  when  —  in 
short,  when  there  was  a  little  accommodation  wanted." 
The  captain  nodded  his  head  in  a  manner  that  was  at 
once  comfortable,  easy,  and  expressive.  "  You  remem- 
ber, I  dare  say  ?  " 

« I  think,"  said  IHr  Carker,  "  I  had  the  honor  of  ar- 
ranging the  business." 

**  To  be  sui«  I  "  returned  the  captain.     "  Right  again 
fou  had.     Now  I've  took  the  liberty  of  coming  here  "  — 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  smiling. 


84  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

**  Thank'ee,"  returned  the  captain,  availing  himself  of 
the  offer.  "  A  man  does  get  more  way  upon  himself 
perhaps,  in  his  conversation,  when  he  sits  down.  Won't 
you  take  a  cheer  yourself  ?  " 

"  No  thank  you,"  said  the  manager,  standing,  perhaps 
from  the  force  of  winter  habit,  with  his  back  against  the 
chimney-piece,  and  looking  down  upon  the  captain  with 
an  eye  in  every  tooth  and  gum.  "  You  have  taken  the 
liberty,  you  w^ere  going  to  say  —  though  it's  none  "  — 

"  Thank'ee  kindly,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain : 
"  of  coming  here,  on  account  of  my  friend  Wal'r.  Sol 
Gills,  his  uncle,  is  a  man  of  science,  and  in  science  he 
may  be  considered  a  clipper ;  but  he  a'n't  what  I  should 
altogether  call  a  able  seaman  —  not  a  man  of  practice. 
Wal'r  is  as  trim  a  lad  as  ever  stepped ;  but  he's  a  little 
down  by  the  head  in  one  respect,  and  that  is  modesty. 
Now  what  I  should  wish  to  put  to  you,"  said  the  captain, 
lowering  his  voice,  and  speaking  in  a  kind  of  confidential 
growl,  "  in  a  friendly  way,  entirely  between  you  and 
me,  and  for  my  own  private  reckoning,  till  your  head 
governor  has  wore  round  a  bit,  and  I  can  come  along- 
side of  him,  is  this.  —  Is  everything  right  and  comforta- 
ble here,  and  is  Wal'r  out'ard  bound  .with  a  pretty  fair 
wind  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  now.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned 
Carker,  gathering  up  his  skirts  and  settling  himself  iir 
liis  position.  "  You  are  a  practical  man  ;  what  do  you 
hink  ?  " 

The  acuteness  and  significance  of  the  captain's  eye, 
M  he  cocked  it  in  reply,  nc  words  short  of  those  unut- 
terable Chinese  words  before  referred  to  could  describe. 

"Come!"  said  the  captain,  unspeakably  encouraged. 
"  what  do  you  say  ?     Am  I  right  or  wrong  ?  " 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  25 

So  much  had  the  captain  expressed  in  his  eye,  em- 
boldened and  incited  by  Mr.  Carkcr's  8niih"ng  urbanity, 
that  he  felt  himself  in  as  fair  a  condition  to  put  the  ques- 
tion, as  if  he  had  expressed  his  sentiments  with  the  ut- 
raost  elaboration. 

"  Right,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  have  no  doubt." 

**  Out'ard  bound  with  fair  weather,  then,  I  say,"  ciiod 
Captain  Cuttle. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent. 

"  Wind  right  astarn,  and  plenty  of  it,"  pursued  the 
captain. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent  again. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  greatly  relieved  and 
pleased.  *'  I  know'd  how  she  headed,  well  enough  ;  I 
told  Wal'r  so.     Thank'ee,  thank'ee." 

"  Gay  has  brilliant  prospects,"  observed  Mr.  Carker, 
stretching  his  mouth  wider  yet ;  "  all  the  world  before 
him." 

"  All  the  world  and  his  wife  too,  as  the  saying  is," 
returned  the  delighted  captain. 

At  the  word  "  wife "  (which  he  had  uttered  without 
design),  the  captain  stopped,  cocked  his  eye  again,  and 
putting  the  glazed  hat  on  the  top  of  the  knobby  stick, 
gave  it  a  twirl,  and  looked  sideways  at  his  always  smiling 
friend. 

"  I'd  bet  a  gill  of  old  Jamaica,"  said  the  captain,  ey- 
ing him  attentively,  "  that  I  know  what  you"re  smiUng 
at." 

Mr.  Carker  took  his  cue,  and  smiled  the  more. 

•^  It  goes  DO  farther  ?  "  said  the  captain,  making  a  poke 
at  the  door  with  the  knobby  stick  to  assure  himself  that 
't  was  shut. 

''  Not  an  inch,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 


86  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

*•'  You're  a-thinking  of  a  capital  F  perhaps  ?  "  stad  the 
raptain. 

Mr.  Carker  didn't  deny  it. 

"  Anything  about  a  L,"  said  the  captain,  "  or  a  0  ?  ** 

Mr.  Carker  still  smiled. 

"Am  I  right  again?"  inquired  the  captain  in  a  whifr^ 
per,  with  the  scarlet  circle  on  his  forehead,  swelling  in 
his  triumphant  joy. 

Mr.  Carker,  in  reply,  still  smiling,  and  now  nodding 
assent,  Captain  Cuttle  rose  and  squeezed  him  by  the 
hand,  assuring  him,  warmly,  that  they  were  on  the 
same  tack,  and  that  as  for  him  (Cuttle)  he  had  laid  his 
course  that  way  all  along.  "  He  know'd  her  first," 
said  the  captain,  with  all  the  secrecy  and  gravity  that 
the  subject  demanded,  "  in  an  uncommon  manner  — 
you  remember  his  finding  her  in  the  street,  when  she 
was  a'most  a  babby  —  he  has  liked  her  ever  since,  and 
she  him,  as  much  as  two  such  youngsters  can.  We've 
always  said,  Sol  Gills  and  me,  that  they  was  cut  out 
for  each  other." 

A  cat,  or  a  monkey,  or  a  hyena,  or  a  death's-head, 
could  not  have  shown  the  captain  more  teeth  at  one 
lime,  than  Mr.  Carker  showed  him  at  this  period  of 
their  interview. 

"There's  a  general  in-draught  that  way,"  observed 
I  he  happy  captain.  "  Wind  and  water  sets  in  that  direc- 
tion, you  See.     Look  at  his  being  present  t'other  day  I" 

"Most  favorable  to  his  hopes,"  said  Mr.   Carker. 

"  Look  at  hi?  being  towed  along  in  the  wake  of  thai 
day  ! "  pursued  the  captain.  "  Why  what  can  cut  him 
adrift  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Carker. 

*•  You're  right  again,"  returned  the  captain,  giving   his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  27 

hand  another  squeeze.  "Nothing  it  is.  So!  steady! 
There's  a  son  gone  :  pretty  little  creetur.     A'n't  there  ?  '* 

"  Yes,  there's  a  son  gone,"  said  the  acquiescent  Carker. 

"  Pass  the  word,  and  there's  another  ready  for  you," 
quoth  the  captain.  "  Nevy  of  a  scientific  uncle  !  Nevy 
of  Sol  Gills !  "Wal'r !  Wal'r,  as  is  already  in  your 
business  !  And "  —  said  the  captain,  rising  gradually 
to  a  quotation  he  was  preparing  for  a  final  burst,  "  who 

—  comes  from  Sol  Gills's  daily,  to  your  business,  and 
your  bu/zums." 

The  captain's  complacency  as  he  gently  jogged  Mr. 
Cai'ker  with  his  elbow,  on  concluding  each  of  the  fore- 
going short  sentences,  could  be  surpassed  by  nothing 
but  the  exultation  with  which  he  fell  back  and  eyed 
him  when  he  had  finished  this  brilliant  display  of  elo- 
quence and  sagacity ;  his  great  blue  waistcoat  heaving 
with  the  throes  of  such  a  masterpiece,  and  his  nose  in 
a  state  of  violent  inflammation  from  the  same  cause. 

"  Am  I  right  ? "  said  the  captain. 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  bending  down 
at  the  knees,  for  a  moment,  in  an  odd  manner,  as  if 
he  were  falling  together  to  hug  the  whole  of  himself 
at  once,  "  your  views  in  reference  to  Walter  Gay  are 
thoroughly  and  accurately  right.  I  understand  that  we 
speak  together  in  confidence." 

"  Honor  !  "  interposed  the  captain,  "  not  a  word." 

"  To  him  or  any  one  ? "  pursued  the  manager. 

Captain  Cuttle  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

"  But  merely  for  your  own  satisfaction  and  guidance 

-  -  and  guidance,  of  course,"  repeated  Mr.  Carker,  "  with 
B  view  to  your  future  proceedings." 

"Thank'ee  kindly,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  captain,  listen- 
iiig  with  great  attention. 


28  '  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

•*  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that's  the  fact.  You 
have  hit  the  probabilities  exactly." 

"  And  with  regard  to  your  head  governor,"  said  the 
captain,  "  why  an  interview  had  better  come  about  nai- 
ral  between  us.     There's  time  enough." 

Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  repeated, 
"  Time  enough."  Not  articulating  the  words,  but  bow- 
ing his  head  affably,  and  forming  them  with  his  tongue 
and  lips. 

"  And  as  I  know  now  —  it's  what  I  always  said  — 
that  Wal'r's  in  the  way  to  make  his  fortune,"  said  the 
captain. 

"  To  make  his  fortune,"  Mr.  Carker  repeated,  in  the 
same  dumb  manner. 

"  And  as  Wal'r's  going  on  this  little  voyage  is,  as 
I  may  say,  in  his  day's  work,  and  a  part  of  his  general 
expectations  here,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Of  his  general  expectations  here,"  assented  Mr.  Car- 
ker, dumbly  as  before. 

'*  Why,  so  long  as  I  know  that,"  pursued  the  captaiii, 
"  there's  no  hurry,  and  my  mi  Ad's  at  ease." 

Mr.  Carker  still  blandly  assenting  in  the  same  voice- 
less manner,  Captain  Cuttle  was  strongly  confirmed  in 
his  opinion  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  men 
he  had  ever  met,  and  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  might 
irajjrove  himself  on  such  a  model.  With  great  hearti- 
ness, therefore,  the  captain  once  again  extended  his 
enormous  hand  (not  unlike  an  old  block  in  color),  and 
gave  him  a  grip  that  left  upon  his  smoother  flesh  a 
proof  impression  of  the  chinks  and  crevices  witii  which 
the  captain's  palm  was  liberally  tattooed. 

"  Farewell ! "  said  the  captain.  "  I  a'n't  a  man  of 
aianj  words,  but  I  take  it  very  knid  of  you  to  bo  so 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  28 

friendly,  and  above-board.  You'll  excuse  me  if  Pve 
been  at  all  intruding,  will  you  ? "  said  the  captain. 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  the  other. 

"Thank'ee.  My  berth  a'n't  very  roomy,"  said  the 
eaptain,  turning  back  again,  "  but  it's  tolerably  snug ; 
and  if  you  was  to  find  yourself  near  Brig-place,  num- 
i<er  nine,  at  any  time  —  will  you  make  a  note  of  it? 
—  and  would  come  up-stairs,  without  minding  what  was 
*aid  by  the  person  at  the  door,  I  should  be  proud  to 
see  you." 

With  that  hospitable  invitation,  the  captain  said  "  Good 
day,"  and  walked  out  and  shut  the  door;  leaving  Mr 
Carker  still  reclining  against  the  chimney-piece.  In 
whose  sly  look  and  watchful  manner;  in  whose  false 
mouth  stretched  but  not  laughing ;  in  whose  spotless 
cravat  and  very  whiskers ;  even  in  whose  silent  passing 
of  his  soft  hand  over  his  white  linen  and  his  smooth 
face  ;  there  was  something  desperately  cat-like. 

The  unconscious  captain  walked  out  in  a  state  of 
self-glorification  that  imparted  quite  a  new  cut  to  the 
broad  blue  suit.  "  Stand  by  Ned  ! "  said  the  captain 
to  himself.  "  You've  done  a  little  business  for  the  young- 
sters to-day,  my  lad  !  " 

In  his  exultation,  and  in  his  familiarity,  present  and 
prospective,  with  the  House,  the  captain,  when  he  reached 
the  outer  office,  could  not  refi-ain  from  rallying  Mr.  Perch 
a  little,  and  asking  him  whether  he  thought  everybody 
was  still  eno-ajred.     But  not  to  be  bitter  on  a  man  who 

DO  ^ 

bad  done  his  duty,  the  captain  whispered  in  his  ear,  that 
if  he  felt  disposed  for  a  glass  of  rum-and- water,  and 
would  follow,  he  would  be  happy  to  bestow  the  same 
upon  him. 

Before  leaving  the  premises,  the  captain,  somewhat 


80  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  the  astonishment  of  the  clerks,  looked  round  from 
R  central  point  of  view,  and  took  a  general  survey  of 
the  office  as  part  and  parcel  of  a  project  in  which  hia 
young  friend  was  nearly  interested.  The  strong-room 
excited  his  especial  admiration  ;  but,  that-  he  might  not 
appear  too  particular,  he  limited  himself  to  an  approving 
glance,  and,  with  a  graceful  recognition  of  the  clerks 
B8  a  body,  that  was  full  of  politeness  and  patronage, 
passed  out  into  court.  Being  promptly  joined  by  Mr. 
Perch,  he  conveyed  that  gentleman  to  the  tavern,  and 
fulfilled  his  pledge  —  hastily,  for  Perch's  time  was  pre- 
cious. 

"  I'll  give  you  for  a  toast,"  said  the  captain,  "  Wal'r ! " 

«  Who  ?  "  submitted  Mr.  Perch. 

"  "Wal'r  ! "  repeated  the  captain,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Mr.  Perch,  who  seemed  to  remember  having  heard 
in  infancy  that  there  was  once  a  poet  of  that  name, 
made  no  objection ;  but  he  was  much  astonished  at  the 
captain's  coming  into  the  city  to  propose  a  poet ;  indeed 
if  he  had  proposed  to  put  a  poet's 'statue  up  —  say  Shak- 
Bpeare's  for  example  —  in  a  civic  thoroughfare,  he  could 
hardly  have  done  a  greater  outrage  to  Mr.  Perch'."  ex- 
perience. On  the  whole,  he  was  such  a  mysterious  and 
incomprehensible  character,  that  Mr.  Perch  decided  not 
to  mention  him  to  Mrs.  Perch  at  all,  in  case  of  giving 
rise  to  any  disagreeable  consequences. 

Mysterious  and  incomprehensible,  the  captain,  with 
that  lively  sense  upon  him  of  having  done  a  little  busi- 
aess  for  the  youngsters,  remained  all  day,  even  to  his_ 
most  intimate  friends ;  and  but  that  Walter  attributed 
his  winks  and  gi'ins,  and  other  such  pantomimic  reliefs 
of  himself,  to  his  satisfaction  in  the  success  of  their 
rnnocent  deception  upon  old  Sol  Gills,  he  would  assur 


OOMBEY  ASTD  SON.  »1 

odiy  have  betrayed  himself  before  night.  As  it  was, 
•  however,  he  kept  his  own  secret;  and  went  home  late 
from  the  instrument-maker's  house,  wearing  the  glazed 
hat  so  much  on  one  side,  and  carrying  such  a  beam- 
ing  expression  in  his  eyes,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  (who 
might  have  been  brought  up  at  Doctor  Blimber's,  she 
was  such  a  Roman  matron)  fortified  herself,  at  the  first 
glimpse  of  him,  behind  the  open  street-door,  and  refused 
to  come  out  to  the  contemplation  of  her  blessed  infanta 
mtil  he  was  securely  lodged  in  his  own  room. 


32  DOMBKY  AMD  SON. 


CHAPTER   XVm. 


KATHKR    AX1>   DAUGHTER. 


TuECU  is  a  hush  through  Mr.  Dombey's  liouse.  Ser- 
vants gliding  up  and  down  stairs  ru.stle  but  make  no 
sound  of  footsteps.  They  talk  together  constantly,  and 
sit  long  at  meals,  making  much  of  their  meat  and  drink, 
and  enjoying  themselves  after  a  grim  unholy  fashion. 
Mrs.  Wickam,  wifh  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  relates 
melancholy  anecdotes ;  and  tells  them  how  she  always 
said  at  Mrs.  Pipcliin's  that  it  would  be  so,  and  lakea 
more  table-ale  than  usual,  and  is  very  sorry  but  soci- 
able. Cook's  state  of  mind  is  similar.  She  promises  a 
little  fry  for  supper,  and  struggles  about  equally  against 
her  feelings  and  the  onions.  Towiinson  begins  to  think 
there's  a  fate  in  it,  and  wants  to  know  if  anybody  can 
tell  him  of  any  good  that  ever  came  of  living  in  a  cor- 
ner house.  It  seems  to  all  of  them  as  having  happeneil 
a  long  time  ago  ;  though  yet  the  child  lies,  calm  ard 
beautiful,  upon  his  little  bed. 

After  dark  there  come  some  visitors  —  noiseless  visit- 
ors, with  shoes  of  felt  —  who  have  been  there  before  ; 
and  with  them  comes  that  bed  of  rest  which  is  so  strange 
a  one  for  infant  sleepers.  All  this  time,  the  bereaved 
iktlier  has  not  been  seen  even  by  his  attendant ;  for  he 
sits  in  a  corner  of  his  own  dark  room  when  any  one  is 
there,  and  never  seems  to  move  at  other  times,  except  to 


DOMBKY  AND  SON.  81 

pace  it  to  and  fro.  But  in  the  morning  it  is  whispered 
among  the  household  that  he  was  heard  to  go  up-stair3 
in  the  dead  night,  and  that  he  stayed  there  —  in  the 
room  —  until  the  sun  was  shining. 

At  the  offices  in  the  city,  the  ground-glass  windows 
•remade  more  dim  by  shutters;  and  while  the  lighte<l 
lamps  upon  the  desks  are  half-extinguished  by  the  day 
that  wanders  in,  the  day  is  half-extingui>lied  by  the 
lamps,  and  an  unusual  gloom  prevails.  There  is  uot 
much  business  done.  Tlie  clerks  are  indisposed  to  work; 
and  they  make  sissignations  to  eat  chops  in  the  afterricM>n, 
and  go  up  the  river.  Perch,  the  messenger,  stays  long 
upon  his  errands ;  and  finds  himself  in  bars  of  public- 
houses,  invited  thither  by  friends,  and  holding  forth  ou 
the  uncertainty  of  human  affiiirs.  He  goes  home  lo 
Ball's  Pond  earlier  in  the  evening  than  usual,  and  treats 
Mrs.  Perch  to  a  veal  cutlet  and  Scotcli  ale.  Mr.  Carker 
tiie  manager  treats  no  one ;  neither  is  he  treated ;  but 
alone  in  his  own  room  he  shows  his  teeth  all  day ;  and 
it  would  seem  that  there  is  something  gone  from  Mr. 
Carker's  path  —  some  obstacle  removed — which  clears 
his  way  before  him. 

Now  the  rosy  children  living  opposite  to  Mr.  Dom- 
l)ey's  house,  peep  from  their  nursery  windows  down  into 
the  street ;  for  there  are  four  black  horses  at  hfS  door, 
with  feathers  on  their  heads ;  and  feathers  tremble  on 
the  carriage  that  they  draw  ;  and  these,  and  an  array  of 
men  with  scarfs  and  staves,  attract  a  crowd.  The  jug- 
gler who  was  going  to  twirl  the  basin,  puts  his  loose  coal 
tTi  again  over  his  fine  dress ;  and  his  trudging  wife,  one- 
sided with  her  heavy  baby  in  her  arms,  loiters  to  see 
the  company  come  out.  But  closer  to  her  dingy  breast 
■ihe  presses  her  baby,  when  the  burden  that  is  so  easilj 


84  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

earned  is  borne  forth ;  and  the  youngest  of  the  rosy 
children  at  the  high  window  opposite,  needs  no  re- 
straining hand  to  check  her  in  her  glee,  when,  point- 
ing with  her  dimpled  finger,  she  looks  into  her  nurse's 
face,  and  asks  "What's  that!" 

And  now,  among  the  knot  of  servants  dressed  in 
mourning,  and  the  weeping  women,  Mr.  Dombey  passes 
through  the  hall  to  the  other  carriage  that  is  waiting  to 
receive  him.  He  is  not  "  brought  down,"  these  observers 
think,  by  sorrow  and  distress  of  mind.  His  walk  is  aa 
erect,  his  bearing  is  as  stiff  as  ever  it  has  been.  He 
hides  his  face  behind  no  handkerchief,  and  looks  before 
him.  But  that  his  face  is  something  sunk  and  rigid,  and 
is  pale,  it  bears  the  same  expression  as  of  old.  He 
takes  his  place  within  the  carriage,  and  three  other 
gentlemen  follow.  Then  the  grand  funeral  moves  slowly 
down  the  street.  The  feathers  are  yet  nodding  in  the 
distance,  when  the  juggler  has  the  basin  spinning  on  a 
cane,  and  has  the  same  crowd  to  admire  it.  But  the 
juggler's  wife  is  less  alert  than  usual  with  the  money- 
box, for  a  child's  burial  has  set  her  thinking  that  per- 
haps the  baby  underneath  her  shabby  shawl  may  not 
grow  up  to  be  a  man,  and  wear  a  sky-blue  fillet  round 
his  head,  and  salmon-coloi'ed  worsted  drawers,  and  tum- 
ble in  the  mud. 

The  feathers  wind  their  gloomy  way  along  the  streets, 
ftnd  come  within  the  sound  of  a  church-bell.  In  this 
same  church,  the  pretty  boy  received  all  that  will  soon 
be  left  of  him  on  earth  —  a  name.  All  of  him  that  is 
dead,  they  lay  there,  near  the  perishable  substance  of  hia 
mother.  It  is  well.  Their  ashes  lie  where  Florence 
in  her  walks  —  oh  lonely,  lonely  walks  !  —  may  pa8i« 
them  any  day. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  35 

The  service  over,  and  the  clergyman  witbdravkti,  Mr 
Dombey  looks  round,  demanding  in  a  low  voice,  wlieth- 
er  the  person  who  has  been  requested  to  attend  to  re- 
ceive instructions  for  the  tablet,  is  there  ? 
»     Some  one  comes  forward,  and  says  "  Yes." 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  where  he  would  have  it  placed; 
aud  shows  him,  with  his  hand  upon  the  wall,  the  shape 
and  size ;  and  how  it  is  to  follow  the  memorial  to  the 
mother.  Then,  with  his  pencil,  he  writes  out  the  in- 
Bcription,  and  gives  it  to  him :  adding,  "  I  wish  to  have 
it  done  at  once." 

"  It  shall  be  done  immediately,  sir." 

"  There  is  really  nothing  to  inscribe  but  name  and 
Bge,  you  see." 

The  man  bows,  glancing  at  the  paper,  but  appears 
to  hesitate.  Mr.  Dombey,  not  observing  his  hesitation, 
turns  away,  and  leads  towards  the  porch. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ; "  a  touch  falls  gently  on 
his  mourning  cloak  ;  "  but  as  you  wish  it  done  imme- 
diately, and  it  may  be  put  in  hand  when  I  get  back  "  — 

"  Well  ?  " 

*'  AVill  you  be  so  good  as  read  it  over  again  ?  I  think 
there's  a  mistake." 

"  Where  ?  " 

The  statuary  gives  him  back  the  paper,  and  points 
rot,  with  his  pocket-rule,  the  words,  "  beloved  and  only 
phild." 

"  It  should  be,  '  son,'  I  think,  sir  ?  " 

"  You  are  right.     Of  course.     Make  the  correction." 

The  father,  with  a  hastier  step,  pursues  his  way  to 
ihc  coach.  When  the  other  three,  wlio  follow  closely, 
take  their  seats,  his  face  is  hidden  for  tiie  first  time 
—  shaded  by  his  cloak.     Nor  do  they  see  it  any  mow 


S6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Ihat  day.  He  alights  first,  and  passes  immediately  int« 
his  own  room.  The  other  mourners  (who  are  only  Mr 
Chick,  and  two  of  the  medical  attendants)  proceed  up- 
stairs to  the  drawing-room,  to  be  received  by  Mrs.  Chick 
and  Miss  Tox.  And  what  the  face  is,  in  the  shut-up 
chamber  underneath  :  or  what  the  thoughts  are :  what 
the  heart  is,  what  the  contest  or  the  suffering  no  one 
knows. 

The  chief  thing  that  they  know,  below-stairs,  in  the 
kitchen,  is  that  "  it  seems  like  Sunday."  They  can 
hardly  persuade  themselves  but  that  there  is  something 
unbecoming,  if  not  wicked,  in  the  conduct  of  the  people 
out  of  doors,  who  pursue  tlieir  ordinary  occupations, 
and  wear  their  every-day  attire.  It  is  quite  a  novelty 
to  have  the  blinds  up,  and  the  shutters  open :  and  they 
make  themselves  dismally  comfortable  over  bottles  of 
wine,  which  are  freely  broached  as  on  a  festival.  They 
are  much  inclined  to  moralize.  Mr.  Towlinson  proposes 
with  a  sigh,  "Amendment  to  us  all!"  for  which,  as 
cook  says  with  another  sigh,  "  There's  room  enough, 
God  knows."  In  the  evening,  Mi-s.  Chick  and  Miss 
Tox  take  to  needlework  again.  In  the  evening  also, 
Mr.  Towlinson  goes  out  to  take  the  air,  accompanied 
by  the  house-maid,  who  has  not  yet  tried  her  mourning 
bonnet.  They  are  very  tender  to  each  other  at  dusky 
street-corners,  and  Towlinson  has  visions  of  leailing  an 
altered  and  blameless  existence  as  a  serious  green-grocer 
in  Oxford  Market. 

There  is  sounder  sleep  and  deeper  rest  in  Mr.  Dora- 
bey's  house  to-night,  than  there  has  been  for  many 
nights. 

The  morning  sun  awakens  the  old  household,  settled 
down  once  more  in  their  old  ways.     The  rosy  cbildreo 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  83 

opposite,  run  past  with  hoops.  There  is  a  splendid  wed- 
ding in  the  church.  The  juggler's  wife  is  active  with 
the  money-box  in  another  quarter  of  the  town.  The 
mason  sings  and  whistles  as  he  chips  out  p-a-u-l  in  the 
marble  slab  before  him. 

And  can  it  be  that  in  a  world  so  full  and  busy,  the 
ioos  of  one  weak  creature  makes  a  void  in  any  heart, 
so  wide  and  deep  that  nothing  but  the  width  and  depth 
of  vast  eternity  can  fill  it  up !  Florence,  in  her  innocent 
Bffliction  might  have  answered,  "  Oh  my  brother,  oh  ray 
dearly  loved  and  loving  brother  !  Only  friend  and  com- 
panion of  my  slighted  childhood !  Could  any  less  idea 
shed  the  light  already  dawning  on  your  early  grave, 
or  give  birth  to  the  softened  sorrow  that  is  springing 
into  life  beneath  this  rain  of  tears !  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  held  it  as 
a  duty  incumbent  on  her,  to  improve  the  occasion,  "  when 
you  are  as  old  as  I  am  "  — 

"  Which  will  be  the  prime  of  life,"  observed  Miss 
Tox. 

"  You  will  then,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  gently  squeez- 
ing Miss  Tox's  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  her  friendly 
remark,  "  you  will  then  know  that  all  grief  is  unavailing, 
and  that  it  is  our  duty  to  submit." 

"  I  will  try,  dear  aunt.  I  do  tiy,"  answered  Florence, 
sobbing. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "because, 
my  love,  as  our  dear  Miss  Tox  —  of  whose  sound  sense 
and  excellent  judgment,  there  cannot  possibly  be  twc 
opinions  "  — 

"My  dear  Louisa,  I  shall  really  be  proud,  soon,"  said 
Miss  Tox. 

—  "  will  tell  you,  and  confirm  by  her  experience,''  pur 


88  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

sued  Mrs.  Chick,  "we  are  called  upon  on  all  occasions 
to  make  an  effort.  It  is  required  of  us.  If  any  —  my 
dear,"  turning  to  Miss  Tox,  "  I  want  a  word.  Mis— 
Mis"— 

"  Demeanor  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said   Mrs.   Chick.     "  How   can   you 
CJoodness  me,  it's  on  the  end  of  my  tongue.     Mis  "  — 

"  Placed  affection  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox,  timidly. 

"  Good  gracious,  Lucretia  !  "  returned  Mrs.  Chick. 
•*  How  very  monstrous !  Misanthrope,  is  the  word  I 
want.  The  idea  !  Misplaced  affection  !  I  say,  if  any 
misanthrope  were  to  put,  in  my  presence,  the  question 
'  Why  were  we  born  ? '  I  should  reply,  '  to  make  an 
effort.' " 

"Very  good  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox,  much  impressed 
by  the  originality  of  the  sentiment     "  Very  good." 

"  Unhappily,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  "  we  have  a  warn- 
ing under  our  own  eyes.  We  have  but  too  much  reason 
to  suppose,  my  dear  child,  that  if  an  effort  had  been 
made  in  time,  in  this  family,  a  train  of  the  most  trying 
and  distressing  circumstances  might  have  been  avoided. 
Nothing  shall  ever  persuade  me,"  observed  the  good 
matron,  with  a  resolute  air,  "  but  that  if  that  effort  had 
been  made  by  poor  dear  Fanny,  the  poor  dear  darling 
child  would  at  least  have  had  a  stronger  constitution." 

Mrs.  Chick  abandoned  herself  to  her  feelings  for  half 
R  moment;  but,  as  a  practical  illustration  of  her  doc- 
trine, brought  herself  up  short,  in  the  middle  of  a  sob, 
iwd  went  on  again. 

"  Therefore,  Florence,  pray  let  us  see  that  yoa  have 
•ome  strength  of  mind,  and  do  not  selfishly  aggravate  the 
distress  in  which  your  poor  papa  is  plunged." 

"  Dear  aunt  !  "  said   Florence,  kneeling  quickly  dowo 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  81 

before  her,  that  she  might  the  better  and  more  earnestly 
look  into  her  face.  "  Tell  me  more  about  papu.  Pray 
lell  me  about  him  !     Is  be  quite  heart-broken  ?  " 

Miss  Tox  was  of  a  tender  nature,  and  there  was  some-' 
Ihing  in  this  appeal  that  moved  her  very  much.  Whether 
she  saw  in  it  a  succession,  on  the  part  of  the  neglected 
child,  to  the  affectionate  concern  so  often  expressed  by 
her  dead  brother  —  or  a  love  that  sought  to  twine  itself 
about  the  heart  that  had  loved  him,  and  that  could  not 
bear  to  be  shut  out  from  sympathy  with  such  a  sorrow, 
in  such  sad  community  of  love  and  grief — or  whether 
she  only  recognized  the  earnest  and  devoted  spirit 
which,  although  discarded  and  repulsed,  was  wrung  with 
tenderness  long  unreturned,  and  in  the  waste  and  soli- 
tude of  this  bereavement  cried  to  him  to  seek  a  comfort  in 
it,  and  to  give  some,  by  some  small  response  —  whatever 
may  have  been  her  understanding  of  it,  it  moved  Miss 
Tox.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  the  majesty  of  Mrs. 
Chick,  and  patting  Florence  hastily  on  the  cheek,  turned 
aside  and  suffered  the  tears  to  gush  from  her  eyes,  with- 
out waiting  for  a  lead  from  that  wise  matron. 

Mrs.  Chick  herself  lost,  for  a  moment,  the  presence  of 
mind  on  which  she  so  much  prided  herself;  and  re- 
mained mute,  looking  on  the  beautiful  young  face  that 
had  so  long,  so  steadily,  and  patiently,  been  turned 
towards  the  little  bed.  But  recovering  her  voice  — 
which  was  synonymous  with  her  presence  of  mind,  in- 
deed they  were  one  and  the  same  thing  —  she  replied 
with  dignity  : 

"  Florence,  my  dear  child,  your  poor  papa  is  peculiar 
at  times ;  and  to  question  me  about  him,  is  to  question 
oae  upon  a  subject  which  I  really  do  not  pretend  to  un- 
lerstand.     1  believe  I  have  as  much  influence  with  ymir 


10  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

papa  as  anybody  has.  Still,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he  lias 
said  very  little  to  me ;  and  that  I  have  only  seen  him 
once  or  twice  for  a  minute  at  a  time,  and  indeed  have 
liardly  seen  him  then,  for  his  room  has  been  dark.  I 
dave  said  to  your  papa  '  Paul ! '  —  that  is  the  exact 
expression  I  used  — '  Paul !  why  do  you  not  take  some- 
thing stimulating?'  Your  papa's  reply  has  always  been, 
*  Louisa,  have  the  goodness  to  leave  me.  I  want  noth- 
ing. I  am  better  by  myself.'  If  I  was  to  be  put  upon 
my  oath  to-morrow,  Lucretia,  before  a  magistrate,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  "  T  have  no  doubt  I  could  venture  to  swear 
to  those  identical  words." 

Miss  Tox  expressed  her  admiration  by  saying,  »*My 
Louisa  is  ever  methodical !  " 

"  In  short,  Florence,"  resumed  her  aunt,  "  literally 
nothing  has  passed  between  your  poor  papa  and  myself, 
until  to-day  ;  when  I  mentioned  to  your  papa  that  Sir 
Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles  had  written  exceedingly  kind 
notes  —  our  sweet  boy!  Lady  Skettles  loved  him  liki 
a Where's  my  pocket  handkerchief!  " 

Miss  Tox  produced  one. 

"  Exceedingly  kind  notes,  proposing  that  you  should 
visit  them  for  change  of  scene.  Mentioning  to  your 
papa  that  I  thought  Miss  Tox  and  myself  might  now  go 
home  (in  which  he  quite  agreed),  I  inquired  if  he  had 
any  objection  to  your  accepting  this  invitation.  He  said, 
No,  Louisa,  not  the  least ! ' " 

Florence  raised  her  tearful  eyes. 

"At  the  same  time,  if  you  would  prefer  staying  here, 
Florence,  to  paying  this  visit  at  present,  or  to  going 
home  with  me  "  — 

"I  should  much  prefer  it,  aunt,"  was  the  faint  i* 
V>inder. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  41 

**  Wliy,  iben,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "yon  can.  [fp 
a  strange  choice,  I  must  say.  But  you  always  w«re 
strange.  Anybody  else  at  your  time  of  life,  and  after 
what  has  passed  —  my  dear  Miss  Tox,  I  have  lo>t  iry 
pocket  handkerchief  again  —  would  be  glad  to  leave 
here,  one  would  suppose." 

"  I  siiould  not  like  to  feel,"  said  Florence,  "as  if  the 
house  was  avoided.  I  should  not  like  to  think  that  the 
—  his  —  the  rooma  up-stairs  were  quite  empty  and 
dreary,  aunt.  I  would  rather  stay  here,  for  the  present. 
Oh  ray  brother  !  oh  ray  brother  !  " 

It  was  a  natural  emotion,  not  to  be  suppressed ;  and 
it  would  make  way  even  between  the  fingers  of  the 
hands  with  which  she  covered  up  her  face.  The  over- 
charged and  heavy-laden  breast  must  sometimes  have 
that  vent,  or  the  poor  wounded  solitary  heart  within  it 
would  have  fluttered  like  a  bird  with  broken  wings,  and 
sunk  down  in  the  dust. 

"  Well,  child  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  pause.  "  I 
wouldn't  on  any  account  say  anything  unkind  to  you, 
and  that  I'm  sure  you  know.  You  will  remain  here, 
then,  and  do  exactly  as  you  like.  No  one  will  interfere 
with  you,  Florence,  or  wish  to  interfere  with  you,  I'm 
Buro." 

Florence  shook  her  head  in  sad  assent. 

"  I  had  no  sooner  begun  to  advise  your  poor  papa  that 
hi?  really  ought  to  seek  some  distraction  and  restoration 
in  a  temporary  change,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  than  he  told 
me  he  had  already  formed  the  intention  of  going  into  the 
country  for  a  short  time.  I'm  sure  I  hope  he'll  go  very 
Boon.  He  can't  go  too  soon.  But  I  suppose  there  are 
6ome  arrangements  connected  with  his  private  papers 
and  so  forth,  consequent  en  the  affliction  that  has  tried 


42  DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

ns  all  so  mucli  —  I  can't  think  what's  beoome  of  mine  * 
Lucretia,  lend  me  yours,  my  dear  —  that  may  occupy 
bira  for  one  or  two  evenings  in  his  own  room.  Ycul 
papa's  a  Dombey,  child,  if  ever  there  was  one,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  drying  both  her  eyes  at  once  with  great  caie  on 
opposite  comers  of  Miss  Tox's  handkerchief.  "  He'll 
make  an  efibrt.     There's  no  fear  of  him." 

"  Is  there  nothing,  aunt,"  asked  Florence,  trembling, 
"1  might  do  to"  — 

''  Lord,  my  dear  child,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  has- 
tily, "  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  If  your  papa  said 
to  me  —  I  have  given  you  his  exact  words,  '  Louisa,  I 
want  nothing;  I  am  better  by  myself — what  do  you 
think  he'd  say  to  you  ?  You  mustn't  show  yourself  to 
him,  child.     Don't  dream  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Aunt,"  said  Florence,  "  I  will  go  and  lie  down  in 
my  bed." 

Mrs.  Chick  approved  of  this  resolution,  and  dismissed 
her  with  a  kiss.  But  Miss  Tox,  on  a  faint  pretence  of 
looking  for  the  mislaid  handkerchief,  went  up-stairs  after 
her ;  and  tried  in  a  few  stolen  minutes  to  comfort  her,  in 
spite  of  great  discouragement  from  Susan  Nipper.  For 
Miss  Nipper,  in  her  burning  zeal,  disparaged  Miss  Tox 
as  a  crocodile  ;  yet  her  sympathy  seemed  genuine,  and 
had  at  least  the  vantage-ground  of  disinteresteilness— • 
there  was  little  favor  to  be  won  by  it. 

And  was  there  no  one  nearer  and  dearer  than  Sussn, 
to  uphold  the  striving  heart  in  its  anguish  ?  Was  there 
uo  other  neck  to  clasp  ;  no  other  face  to  turn  to  ?  no 
'ine  else  to  say  a  soothing  word  to  such  deep  sorrow  ? 
Was  Florence  so  alone  in  the  bleak  world  that  nothing 
else  remained  to  her  ?  Nothing.  Stricken  motlierless 
and  brotherless  at  once  — for  in  the  loss  of  little  PauL 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  4g 

that  first  and  greatest  loss  fell  heavily  upon  her  —  thia 
was  the  only  help  she  had.  Oh,  who  can  tell  how  much 
she  needed  help  at  first ! 

At  first,  when  the  house  subsided  into  its  accustomed 
course,  and  they  had  all  gone  away,  except  the  servants, 
and  her  father  shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  Florence  could 
do  nothing  but  weep,  and  wander  up  and  down,  and 
Bometiraes,  in  a  sudden  pang  of  desolate  remembrance, 
fly  to  her  own  chamber,  wring  her  hands,  lay  her  face 
down  on  her  bed,  and  know  no  consolation  :  nothing  but 
the  bitterness  and  cruelty  of  grief.  This  commonly  en- 
sued upon  the  recognition  of  some  spot  or  object  very 
tenderly  associated  with  him ;  and  it  made  the  miserable 
house,  at  first,  a  place  of  agony. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  pure  love  to  bum  so 
fiercely  and  unkindly  long.  The  flame  that  in  its  grosser 
composition  has  the  taint  of  earth,  may  prey  upon  the 
breast  that  gives  it  shelter ;  but  the  sacred  fire  from 
heaven  is  as  gentle  in  the  heart  as  when  it  rested  on  the 
heads  of  the  assembled  twelve,  and  showed  each  man  his 
brother,  brightened  and  unhurt.  The  image  conjured 
up,  there  soon  returned  the  placid  face,  the  softened 
voice,  the  loving  looks,  the  quiet  trustfulness  and  peace ; 
and  Florence,  though  she  wept  still,  wept  more  tran- 
quilly, and  courted  the  remembrance. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  golden  water,  dancing 
on  the  wall,  in  the  old  place  at  the  old  serene  time,  had 
her  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  it  as  it  ebbed  away.  It  was 
Dot  very  long  before  that  room  again  knew  her,  often  ;  sit- 
ting there  alone,  as  patient  and  as  mild  as  when  she  had 
watched  beside  the  little  bed.  When  any  sharp  sense 
-)f  its  being  empty  smote  upon  her,  she  could  kneel  be* 
side  it,  and  pray  God  —  it  was  the  pouring  out  of  her 


44  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

full  heart  —  to  let  one  angel  love  her  and  remembei 
her. 

It  was  not  very  long,  before,  in  the  midst  of  the  di9« 
mal  house  so  wide  and  dreary,  her  low  voice  in  the  twi« 
light,  slowly,  and  stopping  sometimes,  touched  the  old 
air  to  which  lie  had  so  often  listened,  with  his  drooping 
head  upon  her  arm.  And  after  that,  and  when  it  was 
quite  dark,  a  little  strain  of  music  trembled  in  the  room: 
so  softly  played  and  sung,  that  it  was  more  like  the 
mournful  recollection  of  what  she  had  done  at  his  re- 
quest on  that  last  night,  than  the  reality  repeated.  But 
it  was  repeated,  often  —  very  often,  in  the  shadowy  soli- 
tude ;  and  broken  murmurs  of  the  strain  still  trembled 
on  the  keys,  when  the  sweet  voice  was  hushed  in 
tears. 

Thus  she  gained  heart  to  look  upon  the  work  with 
which  her  fingers  had  been  busy  by  his  side  on  the  sea- 
shore ;  and  thus  it  was  not  very  long  before  she  took  to 
it  again  —  with  something  of  a  human  love  for  it,  as  if  it 
had  been  sentient  and  had  known  him ;  and,  sitting  in  a 
window,  near  her  mother's  picture,  in  the  unused  room  so 
long  deserted,  wore  away  the  thoughtful  hours. 

Why  did  the  dark  eyes  turn  so  often  from  this  work 
to  where  the  rosy  children  lived  ?  They  were  not  im- 
mediately suggestive  of  her  loss ;  for  they  were  all  gir.'sz 
four  little  sistei's.  But  they  were  motherless  like  her  — 
and  had  a  father. 

It  was  easy  to  know  when  he  had  gone  out  and  was 
expected  home,  for  the  elder  child  was  always- dressed 
and  waiting  for  him  at  the  drawing-ro<»m  window,  or  in 
the  balcony  ;  and  when  he  appeared,  her  expectant  face 
lighted  up  with  joy,  while  the  others  at  the  high  window, 
n    always  on  the  watch  too,  clapped  their  hands,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  46 

drummeil  them  on  the  sill,  and  called  to  him.  The 
elder  child  would  come  down  to  tlie  hall,  and  put  her 
hand  in  his,  and  lead  him  up  the  stairs ;  and  Florence 
would  see  her  afterwards  sitting  by  his  side,  or  on  his 
knee,  or  iianging  coaxingly  about  his  neck  and  talking  to 
him :  and  though  they  were  always  gay  together,  he 
would  often  watch  her  face,  as  if  he  thought  her  like 
her  mother  that  was  dead.  Florence  would  sometimes 
look  no  more  at  this,  and  bursting  into  tears  would  hide 
behind  the  curtain  as  if  she  were  frightened,  or  would 
hurry  from  the  window.  Yet  she  could  not  help  return- 
ing ;  and  her  work  would  soon  fall  unheeded  from  her 
hands  again. 

It  was  the  house  that  had  been  empty,  years  ago.  It 
had  remained  so  for  a  long  time.  At  last,  and  while  she 
had  been  away  from  home,  this  family  had  taken  it ;  and 
it  was  repaired  and  newly  painted ;  and  there  were 
birds  and  flowers  about  it ;  and  it  looked  very  differ- 
ent from  its  old  self.  But  she  never  thought  of  the 
house.     The  children  and  their  father  were  all  in  all. 

When  he  had  dined,  she  could  see  them,  through  the 
open  windows,  go  down  with  their  governess  or  nurse, 
and  cluster  round  the  table  ;  and  in  the  still  summer 
weather,  the  sound  of  their  childish  voices  and  clear 
laughter  would  come  ringing  across  the  street,  into  the 
drooping  air  of  the  room  in  which  she  sat.  Then  they 
would  climb  and  clamber  up-stairs  with  him,  and  romp 
alx)ut  him  on  the  sofa,  or  group  themselves  at  his  knee, 
a  very  nosegay  of  little  faces,  while  he  seemed  to  tell 
them  some  story.  Or  they  would  come  running  out  into 
the  balcony ;  and  then  Florence  would  hide  herself 
quickly,  lest  it  should  check  them  in  their  joy,  to  see  her 
in  her  black  dress,  sitting  there  alone. 


46  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  elder  child  remained  with  her  father  ?phen  the 
rest  had  gone  away,  and  made  his  tea  for  him  —  happy 
little  house-keeper  she  was  then  !  —  and  sat  conversing 
with  him,  sometimes  at  the  window,  sometimes  in  the 
room,  until  the  candles  came.  He  made  her  his  com* 
panion,  though  she  was  some  years  younger  than  Flor- 
ence ;  and  she  could  be  as  staid  and  pleasantly  demure, 
with  her  little  book  or  work-box,  as  a  woman.  When 
they  had  candles,  Florence  from  her  own  dark  room  was 
not  afraid  to  look  again.  But  when  the  time  came  for 
the  child  to  say  "  Good-night,  papa,"  and  go  to  bed, 
Florence  would  sob  and  tremble  as  she  raised  her  fac^ 
to  him,  and  could  look  no  more. 

Though  still  she  would  turn,  again  and  again,  before 
going  to  bed  herself,  from  the  simple  air  that  had  lulled 
him  to  rest  so  often,  long  ago,  and  from  the  other  low 
soft  broken  strain  of  music,  back  to  that  house.  But 
that  she  ever  thought  of  it,  or  watched  it,  was  a  secret 
which  she  kept  within  her  own  young  breast. 

And  did  that  breast  of  Florence  —  Florence,  so  in- 
genuous and  true  —  so  worthy  of  the  love  that  he  had 
borne  her,  and  had  whispered  in  his  last  faint  words  ■— 
whose  guileless  heart  was  mirrored  in  the  beauty  of  her 
face,  and  breathed  in  every  accent  of  her  gentle  voice 
—  did  that  young  breast  hold  any  other  secret  ?  Yes. 
One  more. 

When  no  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  and  the  lights 
were  all  extinguished,  she  would  softly  leave  her  own 
ro<)m,  and  with  noiseless  feet  descend  tho  staircase,  and 
approach  her  father's  door.  Against  it,  scarcely  breath- 
ing, she  would  rest  her  face  and  head,  and  press  her 
fipe,  in  the  yearning  of  her  love.  She  crouched  upon 
the  cold  stone  floor  outside  it,  every  night,  to  listen  even 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  47 

for  his  breath ;  and  in  her  one  absorbing  wish  to  be  al- 
lowed to  show  him  some  affection,  to  be  a  consolation  to 
him,  to  win  hira  over  to  the  endurance  of  some  tender- 
ness from  her,  his  solitary  child,  she  would  have  knelt 
down  at  his  feet,  if  she  had  dared,  in  humble  suppli- 
cation. 

No  one  knew  it.  No  one  thought  of  it.  The  door 
was  ever  closed,  and  he  shut  up  within.  He  went  out 
once  or  twice,  and  it  was  said  in  the  house  that  he  was 
very  soon  going  on  his  country  journey  ;  but  he  lived  in 
those  rooms,  and  lived  alone,  and  never  saw  her,  or  in- 
quired for  her.  Perhaps  he  did  not  even  know  that  she 
was  in  the  house. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  funeral,  Florence  was 
sitting  at  her  work,  when  Susan  appeared,  with  a  face 
half  laughing  and  half  crying,  to  announce  a  visitor. 

"  A  visitor  !  To  me,  Susan  ! "  said  Florence,  looking 
up  in  astonishment. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  wonder,  a'n't  it  now  Miss  Floy,"  said 
Susan  ;  "  but  I  wish  you  had  a  many  visitors,  I  do,  in- 
deed, ibr  you'd  be  all  the  better  for  it,  and  it's  my  opin- 
ion that  the  sooner  you  and  me  goes  even  to  them  old 
Skettleses,  miss,  the  better  for  both,  I  may  not  wish  to 
live  in  crowds.  Miss  Floy,  but  still  I'm  not  a  oyster." 

To  do  Miss  Nipper  justice,  she  spoke  more  for  hei 
young  mistress  than  herself;  and  her  face  showed  it. 

**  But  the  visitor,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

Susan,  with  an  hysterical  explosion  that  was  as  niucb 
B  laugh  as  a  sob,  and  as  much  a  sob  as  a  laugh,  iin- 
swered, — 

"Mr  Toots!" 

The  smile  that  appeared  on  Florence's  face  passed 
from  it  in  a  moment,  and   her   eyes  filled  with   tears. 


48  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

But  at  any  rate  it  was  a  smile,  and  that  gave  great 
satisfaction  to  Miss  Nipper. 

"  My  own  feelings  exactly,  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan, 
putting  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  shaking  her  head. 
"  Immediately  I  see  that  Innocent  in  the  hall.  Miss  Floy, 
I  burst  out  laughing  first,  and  then  I  choked." 

Susan  Nipper  involuntarily  proceeded  to  do  the  like 
again  on  the  spot.  In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Toots,  who  had 
come  up-stairs  after  her,  all  unconscious  of  the  effect  he 
produced,  announced  himself  with  his  knuckles  on  the 
door,  and  walked  in  very  biiskly. 

*'  How  d'ye  do.  Miss  Dombey  ? "  said  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I'm  very  well  I  thank  you  ;  how  are  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots  —  than  whom  there  were  few  better  fellows 
in  the  world,  though  there  may  have  been  one  or  two 
br'ghter  spirits  —  had  laboriously  invented  this  long 
burst  of  discourse  with  the  view  of  relieving  the  feel- 
ings both  of  Florence  and  himself.  But  finding  that  he 
bad  run  through  his  property,  as  it  were,  in  an  injudi- 
cious manner,  by  squandering  the  whole  before  taking  a 
chair,  or  before  Florence  had  uttered  a  word,  or  before 
he  had  well  got  in  at  the  door,  he  deemed  it  advisable  to 
begin  again. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I'm 
very  well,  I  thank  you  ;  how  are  you  ? " 

Florence  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said  she  was  very 
welL 

**  I'm  very  well  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  a 
chair.  "  Very  well  indeed,  I  am.  1  don't  remember," 
Sfud  Mr.  Toots,  after  reflecting  a  little,  "that  I  was 
ever  better,  thank  you." 

''  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said  Florence,  tak- 
'.ag  up  her  work.     "  1  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 


DOiLBEY  AND  SON.  49 

Mr  Toots  responded  with  a  chuckle.  Thinking  that 
might  be  toe  hvely,  he  corrected  it  wiih  a  sigh.  Think- 
ing that  might  be  too  melancholy,  he  corrected  it  with 
a  chuckle.  Not  thoroughly  pleasing  himself  with  either 
mode  of  reply,  he  breathed  hard. 

"  You  were  very  kind  to  my  dear  brother,"  said 
Floreiice,  obeying  her  own  natural  impulse  to  relieve 
him  by  saying  so.  *'  He  often  talked  to  me  about 
you." 

'■  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mr.  Toots  hastily. 
♦*Warm,  a'n't  it?" 

"  It  is  beautiful  weather,"  replied  Florence. 

"It  agrees  with  me!"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "I  don't 
think  1  ever  was  so  well  as  I  find  myself  at  present, 
I'm  obliged  to  you." 

After  stating  this  curious  and  unexpected  fact,  Mr. 
Toots  fell  into  a  deep  well  of  silence. 

"  You  have  left  Doctor  Blimber's,  I  think  ? "  said 
Florence,  trying  to  help  him  out. 

« I  should  hope  so,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  And  tum- 
bled in  again. 

He  remained  at  the  bottom,  apparently  drowned,  for 
at  least  ten  minutes.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period, 
he  suddenly  floated,  and  said, 

"Well!     Good-morning,  Miss  Dombey.  " 

"Are  you  going?"  asked  P'lorencc,  rising. 

"  1  don't  know,  though.  No,  not  just  at  present,' 
P.iid  Mv.  Toots,  sitting  down  again,  most  unexpectedly 
*'  The  fact  is  —  I  say,  Miss  Dombey  !  " 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me,"  said  Florence,  with 
H  (juiet  smile,  "  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would 
talk  about  my  brother." 

«  Would  you,  though,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots,  with  sym- 

VOL.  n,  4 


60  DO]MBET  AND  SON. 

pathy  in  every  fibre  of  his  otherwise  expressionless  face. 
"*  Poor  Dombey !  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  that  Bur^ 
gess  &  Co.  —  fashionable  tailors  (but  very  dear),  that  we 
used  to  talk  about  —  would  make  this  suit  of  clothes 
for  such  a  purpose."  Mr.  Toots  was  dressed  in  mourn- 
ing. "  Poor  Dombey  !  I  say  !  Miss  Dombey !  "  blulh 
bered  Toots. 

**  Yes,"  said  Florence. 

**  There's  a  fi-iend  he  took  to  very  much  at  laat.  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  have  him,  perhaps,  as  a  sort  of 
keepsake.     You  remember  his  remembering  Diogenes  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  oh  yes  ! "  cried  Florence. 

**  Poor  Dombey  !     So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots,  seeing  Florence  in  tears,  had  great  diffi- 
culty in  getting  beyond  this  point,  and  had  nearly  tumbled 
into  the  well  again.  But  a  chuckle  saved  him  on  the 
brink. 

"  I  say,"  he  proceeded,  "  Miss  Dombey  !  I  could  have 
had  him  stolen  for  ten  shillings,  if  they  hadn't  given 
him  up ;  and  I  would :  but  they  were  glad  to  get  rid 
of  him,  I  think.  If  you'd  like  to  have  him,  he's  at  the 
door.  I  brought  him  on  purpose  for  you.  He  a'n't  a 
lady's  dog,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  *'  but  you  won't 
mind  that,  will  you  ?  " 

In  fact,  Diogenes  was  at  that  moment,  as  they  pres- 
ently ascertained  from  looking  down  into  the  street, 
Rtaring  through  the  window  of  a  hackney  cabriolet,  into 
which,  for  conveyance  to  that  spot,  he  had  been  ensnare  1, 
on  a  false  pretence  of  rats  among  the  straw.  Sooth  to 
Bay,  he  was  as  unlike  a  lady's  dog  as  dog  might  \ni  j 
and  in  his  gruff  anxiety  to  get  out  presented  an  appear- 
ance sufficiently  unpromising,  as  he  gave  short  yelpn 
out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  overbalancing  hims*^!/ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  !i\ 

by  the  intensity  o^  every  one  of  those  efforts,  tumbled 
down  into  the  straw,  and  then  sprung  panting  up  again, 
putting  out  his  tongue,  as  if  he  had  come  express  to 
a  dispensa'-y  to  be  examined  for  his  health. 

But  though  Diogenes  was  as  ridiculous  a  dog  as  one 
would  meet  with  on  a  summer's  day ;  a  blundering,  ill- 
favored,  clumsy,  bullet-headed  dog,  continually  acting 
on  a  wrong  idea  tliat  there  was  an  enemy  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, whom  it  was  meritorious  to  bark  at ;  and  though 
he  was  far  from  good-tempered,  and  certainly  was  not' 
clever,  and  liad  hair  all  over  his  eyes,  and  a  comic  nose, 
and  an  inconsistent  tail,  and  a  gruff  voice  ;  he  was  dear- 
er to  Florence,  in  virtue  of  that  parting  remembrance 
of  him,  and  that  request  that  he  might  be  taken  care 
of,  than  the  most  valuable  and  beautiful  of  his  kind. 
So  dear,  indeed,  was  this  same  ugly  Diogenes,  and  so 
welcome  to  her,  that  she  took  the  jewelled  hand  of  Mr. 
Toots  and  kissed  it  in  her  gratitude.  And  wlien  Diog- 
enes, released,  came  tearing  up  the  stairs  and  bouncing 
into  the  room  (such  a  business  as  there  was  first,  to  get 
him  out  of  the  cabriolet !),  dived  under  all  the  furniture, 
and  wound  a  long  iron  chain,  that  dangled  from  his  neck, 
round  legs  of  chairs  and  tables,  and  then  tugged  at  it 
until  his  eyes  became  unnaturally  visible,  in  consequence 
of  their  nearly  starting  out  of  his  head ;  and  when  he 
growled  at  Mr.  Toots,  who  affected  familiarity ;  and 
went  pell-mell  at  Towlinson,  morally  convinced  that  he 
was  the  enemy  whom  he  had  barked  at.  round  the  cor- 
ner all  his  life  and  had  never  seen  yet :  Florence  was  as 
pleased  with  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  miracle  of  dis:- 
iretion. 

Mr.  Toots   was   so  overjoyed  by  the  success  of  his 
present,  and  was  so  delighted  to  see  Florence  bending 


52  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

down  over  Diogenes,  smoothing  his  coarse"  back  with  her 
little  delicate  hand  —  Diogenes  graciously  allowing  it 
from  the  first  moment  of  their  acquaintance  —  that  ho 
felt  it  difficult  to  take  leave,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have 
been  a  much  lonjier  time  in  making  up  his  mind  to  do 
BO,  if  he  had  not  been  assisted  by  Diogenes  himself,  who 
suddenly  took  it  into  his  head  to  bay  Mr.  Toots,  and  to 
make  short  runs  at  him  with  his  mouth  open.  Not  ex- 
actly seeing  his  way  to  the  end  of  these  demonstrations, 
'and  sensible  that  they  placed  the  pantaloons  constructed 
by  the  art  of  Burgess  &  Co.  in  jeopardy,  Mr.  loots, 
with  chuckles,  lapsed  out  at  the  door :  by  which,  aftei 
looking  in  again  two  or  three  times,  without  any  object 
ftt  all,  and  being  on  each  occasion  greeted  with  a  frosh 
run  from  Diogenes,  he  finally  took  himself  off  and  got 
away. 

"  Come,  then,  Di !  Dear  Di !  Make  friends  with 
your  new  mistress.  Let  us  love  each  other  Di  !" 
said  Florence,  fondling  his  shaggy  iiead.  And  Di, 
the  rough  and  gruff,  as  if  his  hairy  hide  were  pervious 
to  the  tear  that  dropped  upon  it,  and  his  dog's  heart 
melted  as  it  fell,  put  his  nose  up  to  her  face,  and  swore 
fidelity. 

Diogenes  the  man  did  not  speak  plainer  to  Alexander 
the  Great  than  Diogenes  the  dog  spoke  to  Florence. 
He  subscribed  to  the  offer  of  his  little  mistress  cheor- 
fiiUy,  and  devoted  himself  to  her  service.  A  banquet 
was  immediately  provided  for  him  in  a  corner ;  and 
when  he  had  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill,  he  went  to  tht? 
window  where  Florence  was  sitting,  looking  on,  rose  up 
on  his  hind  legs,  with  his  awkward  fore  paws  on  her 
shoulders,  licked  her  face  and  hands,  nestled  his  great 
bead  against  her  heart,  ond  wagged  his  tail  till  he  was 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON.  53 

Urcd.  Finally,  Diogenes  coiled  himself  up  at  her  feet 
and  went  to  sleep. 

Although  Miss  Nipper  was  nerve  us  in  regard  of  dogs, 
and  felt  it  necessary  to  come  into  the  room  with  her 
skirts  carefully  collected  about  her,  as  if  she  were  cross- 
ing a  brook  on  stepping-stones ;  also  to  utter  little 
screams  and  stand  up  on  chairs  when  Diogenes  stretched 
liimself;  she  was  in  her  own  manner  aff'icted  by  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  could  not  see  Florence  so 
alive  to  the  attachment  and  society  of  this  rude  friend  of 
little  Paul's,  without  some  mental  comments  thereupon 
that  brought  the  water  to  her  eyes.  Mr.  Dombey,  as  a 
part  of  her  reflections,  may  have  been,  in  the  association 
of  ideas,  connected  with  the  dog ;  but,  at  any  rate,  after 
observing  Diogenes  and  his  mistress  all  the  evening,  and 
after  exerting  herself  with  much  good-will  to  provide 
Diogenes  a  bed  in  an  antechamber  outside  his  mistress's 
door,  she  said  hurriedly  to  Florence,  before  leaving  her 
for  the  night : 

"  Your  pa's  a-going  off,  Miss  Floy,  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"  To-morrow  morning,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Yes,  miss  ;  that's  the  orders.     Early." 

"  Do  you  know,"  asked  Florence,  without  looking  at 
her,  "  where  papa  is  going,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  miss.  He's  going  to  meet  that  precious 
major  first,  and  I  must  say  if  I  was  acquainted  with  any 
major  myself  (which  Heavens  forbid),  it  shouldn't  be  a 
blue  one  ! " 

•'  Hush,  Susan  ! "  urged  Florence  gently. 

"  Well,  Miss  Floy,"  returned  Miss  Nipper,  who  was 
full  of  burning  indignation,  and  minded  her  stops  even 
less  than  usual.     "  I  can't  help  it,  blue  he  is,  and  while  I 


54  DOMBLY  AND  SON. 

WAS  a  Cfaristiaa,  although  humble,  I  would  have  natural- 
colored  friends,  or  none.* 

It  appeared  from  what  she  added  and   had   gleaned - 
down-stairs,  that  Mi-s.  Chick  had  proposed  tlie  major  fo* 
Mr.  Dombey's  companion,  and  that  Mr.  Dombey,  afler 
some  hesitation,  had  invited  him. 

"  Talk  of  him  being  a  change,  indeed  !  "  observed  Miss 
Nipper  to  herself  with  boundless  contempt.  "  If  he's  a 
change  give  me  a  constancy." 

"  Good-night,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

"  Good-night,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy." 

Her  tone  of  commiseration  smote  the  chord  so  often 
roughly  touched,  but  never  listened  to  while  she  or  any 
one  looked  on.  Florence  left  alone,  laid  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  and  pressing  the  other  over  her  swelling  heart, 
held  free  communication  with  her  sorrows. 

It  was  a  wet  night ;  and  the  melancholy  rain  fell  pat- 
tering and  dropping  with  a  wearied  sound.  A  sluggish 
wind  was  blowing,  and  went  moaning  round  the  house, 
as  if  it  were  in  pain  or  grief.  A  shrill  noise  quivered 
through  the  trees.  While  she  sat  weeping,  it  grew  late, 
and  dreary  midnight  tolled  out  from  the  steeples. 

Florence  was  little  more  than  a  child  in  years  —  not 
yet  fourteen  —  and  the  loneliness  and  gloom  of  such  an 
hour  in  the  great  house  where  Death  had  lately  made  its 
own  tremendous  devastation,  might  have  set  an  older 
fancy  brooding  on  vague  terrors.  But  her  innocent 
imagination  was  too  full  of  one  theme  to  admit  them. 
Nothing  wandered  in  her  thoughts  but  love  —  a  wander- 
ing love,  indeed,  and  cast  away —  but  turning  always  to 
her  father. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  dropping  of  the  rain,  the 
moaning  of  the  wind,  the  shuddering  of  the  trees,  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  55 

striking  of  the  solemn  clocks,  that  shook  this  one  thought, 
Dr  diminished  its  interest.  Her  recollections  of  the  dear 
dead  boy  —  and  they  were  never  absent  —  were  itself  5 
the  same  thing.  And  oh,  to  be  shut  out :  to  be  so  lost : 
never  to  have  looked  into  her  father's  face  or  touched 
him,  since  that  hour  ! 

She  could  not  go  to  bed,  poor  child,  and  never  had 
gone  yet,  since  then,  without  making  her  nightly  pilgrim* 
age  to  his  door.  It  would  have  been  a  strange  sad  sight, 
to  see  her  now,  stealing  lightly  down  the  stairs  through 
the  thick  gloom,  and  stopping  at  it  with  a  beating  heart, 
and  blinded  eyes,  and  hair  that  fell  down  loosely  and  un- 
thought  of:  and  touching  it  outside  with  her  wet  cheek. 
But  the  night  covered  it,  and  no  one  knew. 

The  moment  that  she  touched  the  door  on  this  night, 
Florence  found  that  it  was  open.  For  the  first  time  it 
stood  open,  though  by  but  a  hair's-breadth :  and  there 
was  a  light  within.  The  first  impulse  of  the  timid  child 
—  and  she  yielded  to  it  —  was  to  retire  swiftly.  Her 
next,  to  go  back,  and  to  enter ;  and  this  second  impulse 
held  her  in  irresolution  on  the  staircase. 

In  its  standing  open,  even  by  so  much  as  that  chink, 
there  seemed  to  be  hope.  There  was  encouragement  in 
seeing  a  ray  of  light  from  within,  stealing  through  the 
dark  stern  door-way,  and  falling  in  a  thread  upon  the 
marble  floor.  She  turned  back,  hardly  knowing  what 
she  did,  but  urged  on  by  the  love  within  her,  and  the 
trial  they  had  undergone  together,  but  not  shared :  and 
with  her  hands  a  little  raised  and  trembling,  glided  in. 

Her  father  sat  at  his  old  table  in  the  middle  room. 
He  had  been  arranging  some  papers,  and  destroying 
others,  and  the  latter  lay  in  fragile  ruins  before  him. 
The  rain  dripped  h'^avily  upon  the  glass  panes  in  the 


56  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

outer  room,  where  he  had  so  often  watched  pocr  Paul,  a 
baby ;  and  the  low  complainings  of  the  wind  were  beard 
without. 

But  not  by  him.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
table,  so  immersed  in  thought,  that  a  far  heavier  tread 
than  the  light  foot  of  his  child  could  make,  might  have 
failed  to  rouse  hira.  His  face  was  turned  towards  her. 
By  the  waning  lamp,  and  at  that  haggard  hour,  it  looked 
worn  and  dejected  ;  and  in  the  utter  loneiines?  surround- 
ing hira,  there  was  an  appeal  to  Florence  tliat  struck 
home. 

"•  Papa  !  papa  !     Speak  to  me,  dear  papa ! " 

He  started  at  her  voice,  and  leaped  up  froiu  nis  seat. 
She  was  close  before  him  with  extended  arms,  but  he 
fell  back. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  said,  sternly.  "  Why  do 
you  come  here  ?     What  has  frightened  you  ?  " 

If  anything  had  frightened  her,  it  was  the  face  he 
turned  upon  her.  The  glowing  love  within  the  breast 
of  his  young  daughter  froze  before  it,  and  she  stood  and 
looked  at  him  as  if  stricken  into  stone. 

There  was  not  one  touch  of  tenderness  or  pity  in  it. 
There  was  not  one  gleam  of  interest,  parental  recogni- 
tion, or  relenting  in  it.  There  was  a  change  in  it,  but 
not  of  that  kind.  The  old  indifference  and  cold  con^ 
straint  had  given  place  to  something :  wliat,  she  never 
thougiit  and  did  not  dare  to  think,  and  yet  she  felt  it  in 
iti;  force,  and  knew  it  well  without  a  name :  that  as  it 
looked  upon  her,  seemed  to  cast  a  shadow  on  her  head. 

Did  he  see  before  him  the  successful  rival  of  his  son, 
III  health  and  life  ?  Did  he  look  upon  his  own  success- 
ful rival  in  that  son's  affection  ?  Did  a  mad  jealousy 
and    rtitliered   pride,   poison    sweet   remembrances   ibai 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  57 

should  have  endeared  and  made  her  precious  to  him? 
Could  it  be  possible  that  it  was  gall  to  him  to  look  upon 
her  in  her  beauty  and  her  promise :  thinking  of  his 
infant  boy  ! 

Florence  had  no  such  thoughts.  But  love  is  quick 
to  know  when  it  is  spurned  and  hopeless :  and  hope  died 
out  of  hers,  as  she  stood  looking  in  her  father's  face. 

"  I  ask  you,  Florence,  are  you  frightened  ?  Is  there 
anything  the  matter,  that  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  papa  "  — 

"  Against  my  wishes.     Why  ?  " 

She  saw  lie  knew  why :  it  was  written  broadly  on  his 
face :  and  dropped  her  head  upon  her  hands  with  one 
prolonged  low  cry. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  It 
has  faded  from  the  air,  before  he  breaks  the  silence.  It 
may  pass  as  quickly  from  his  brain,  as  he  believes,  but  it 
is  there.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to 
come  ! 

He  took  her  by  the  arm.  His  hand  was  cold,  and 
loose,  and  scarcely  «?losed  upon  her. 

"  You  are  tired,  I  dare  say,"  he  said,  taking  up  the 
light,  and  leading  her  towards  the  door,  "  and  want  rest 
We  all  want  rest.  Go  Florence.  You  have  been 
dreaming." 

The  dream  she  had  had,  was  over  then,  God  help 
hrr !  and  she  felt  that  it  could  never  more  come  back. 

"  I  will  remain  here  to  light  you  up  the  stairs.  The 
whole  house  is  yours,  above  there,"  said  her  fathei, 
slowly     "  You  are  its  mistress  now.     Good-night !  " 

Still  covering  her  face,  she  sobbed,  and  answered 
"  Good-night,  dear  papa,"  and  silently  ascended.  Once 
she  looked  back  as  if  she  would  have  returned  to  him, 


68  DOMBEY  AND  SONi 

but  for  fear.  It  was  a  momentary  thought,  too  hopeless 
to  encourage ;  and  her  father  stood  there  with  the  light 
—  hard,  unresponsive,  motionless  —  until  the  fluttering 
dress  of  his  fair  child  was  lost  in  tlie  darkness. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come. 
Tlie  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof:  the  wind  that  mouma 
outside  the  door :  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  mel- 
ancholy sound.  lyct  him  remember  it  in  that  room, 
years  to  come ! 

The  last  time  he  had  watched  her,  from  the  same 
place,  winding  up  those  stairs,  she  had  had  her  brother 
in  her  arms.  It  did  not  move  his  heart  towards  her 
now,  it  steeled  it :  but  he  went  into  his  room,  and  locked 
his  door,  and  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  ci-ied  for  his  lost 
boy. 

Diogenes  was  broad  awake  upon  his  post,  and  waiting 
for  his  little  mistress. 

"  Oh  Di !     Oh  dear  Di !     Love  me  for  his  sake  !  " 

Diogenes  already  loved  her  for  her  own,  and  didn't 
care  how  much  he  showed  it.  So  he  made  himself 
vastly  ridiculous  by  performing  a  variety  of  uncouth 
bounces  in  the  antechamber,  and  concluded,  when  poor 
Florence  was  at  last  asleep,  and  dreaming  of  the  rosy 
children  opposite,  by  scratching  open  her  bedroom  door : 
rolling  up  his  bed  into  a  pillow  :  lying  down  on  the 
boards  at  the  full  length  of  his  tetlier,  with  his  head 
towards  her :  and  looking  lazily  at  her,  upside  down,  out 
of  the  tops  of  his  eyes,  until  from  winking  and  winking 
he  fell  asleep  himself,  and  dreamed,  with  gruff  barks,  of 
his  enemy.. 


DflMBEY    A.ND  SON.  59 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


WAl-TER   GOES   AWAY. 


The  Wooden  Midshipman  at  the  Instrument-maktr*! 
door,  like  the  hard-hearted  httle  midshipman  he  was, 
remained  supremely  indifferent  to  Walter's  going  away, 
even  when  the  very  last  day  of  his  sojourn  in  the  back- 
parlor  was  on  the  decline.  With  his  quadrant  at  his 
round  black  knob  of  an  eye,  and  his  figure  in  its  old 
attitude  of  indomitable  alacrity,  the  midshipman  dis- 
played his  elfin  small-clothes  to  the  best  advantage,  and, 
absorbed  in  scientific  pursuits,  had  no  sympathy  with 
worldly  concerns.  He  was  so  far  the  creature  of  cir- 
cumstances, that  a  dry  day  covered  him  with  dust,  and  a 
Lflisty  day  peppered  him  with  little  bits  of  soot,  and  a 
wet  day  brightened  up  his  tarnished  uniform  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  a  very  hot  day  blistered  him  ;  but  otherwise 
he  was  a  callous,  obdurate,  conceited  midshipman,  intent 
on  his  own  discoveries,  and  caring  as  little  for  what  went 
on  about  him,  terrestrially,  as  Archimedes  at  the  taking 
of  Syracuse. 

Such  a  midshipman  he  seemed  w  uc,  at  least,  in  the 
then  position  of  domestic  affairs.  Walter  eyed  him  kind- 
ly many  a  time  in  passing  in  and  out ;  and  poor  old  Sol, 
when  Walter  was  not  there,  would  come  and  lean  against 
he  door-post,  resting  his  weary  wig  as  near  the  shoe- 
buckl'is  of  the  guardian  genius  of  his  trade  and  shof 


80  DOMBEY  AND  S(fii. 

&3  he  could.  But  no  fierce  idol  with  a  mouth  from  eai 
to  ear,  and  a  murderous  visage  made  of  parrot's  feathers, 
was  ever  more  indifferent  to  the  appeals  of  its  savago 
votaries,  than  was  the  midshipman  to  these  marks  of 
attachment. 

Walter's  heart  felt  heavy  as  he  looked  round  his  old 
bedroom,  up  among  the  parapets  and  chimney-pots,  and 
thought  that  one  more  night  already  darkening  would 
nlose  his  acquaintance  witli  it,  perhaps  forever.  Dis- 
mantled of  his  little  stock  of  books  and  pictures,  it  looked 
ooldly  and  reproachfully  on  him  for  his  desertion,  and 
had  already  a  foreshadowing  upon  it  of  its  coming 
strangeness.  "  A  few  hours  more,"  thought  Walter 
•*  and  no  dream  I  ever  had  here  when  I  was  a  school- 
boy will  be  so  little  mine  as  this  old  room.  The  dream 
may  come  back  in  my  sleep,  and  I  may  return  waking 
to  this  place,  it  may  be :  but  the  dream  at  least  will 
serve  no  other  master,  and  the  room  may  have  a  score, 
and  every  one  of  them  may  change,  neglect,  misuse  it." 

But  his  uncle  was  not  to  be  left  alone  in  the  little 
back-parlor  where  he  was  then  sitting  by  himself;  for 
Captain  Cuttle  considerate  in  his  roughness,  stayed  away 
against  his  will,  purposely  that  they  should  have  'ome 
talk  together  unobserved :  so  Walter,  newly  returned 
home  from  his  last  day's  bustle,  descended  briskly  to 
bear  him  company. 

"  Uncle,"  he  said  gayly,  laying  his  lumd  upon  the  old 
man's  shoulders,  "  what  shall  I  send  you  home  from  Bar- 
badoes  ?  " 

"  Hope,  my  dear  Wally.  Hope  that  we  shall  meet 
Rgain,  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  Send  me  as  much  of 
that  as  you  can.'i 

'^  So  I  will,  uncle :  I  have  enough  and  to  spare,  aud 


nOMBEY  AND  SON.  61 

111  not  be  chary  of  it !  And  as  to  lively  tiirtl«s,  and 
limes  for  Captain  Cuttle's  punch,  and  preserves  for  yoo 
on  Sundays?  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  why  I'll  send  yon 
Bhip-loads,  uncle  :  when  1  m  rich  enough." 

Old  Sol  wiped  his  spectacles,  and  faintly  smiled. 

"  That's  right,  uncle ! "  cried  Walter,  merrily,  and 
clapping  him  half  a  dozen  times  taore  upon  the  shoulder. 
"  You  cheer  up  me  !  I'll  cheer  up  you  !  We'll  be  as  gay 
as  larks  to-morrow  morning,  uncle,  and  we'll  fly  as  high  I 
As  to  my  anticipations,  tliey  are  singing  out  of  sight  now." 

"  Wally,  my  dear  boy,"  returned  the  old  man,  "  I'll  do 
my  best,  I'll  do  my  best." 

"  And  your  best,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  with  his  plesis- 
ant  laugh,  "  is  the  best  best  that  I  know.  You'll  not 
forget  what  you're  to  send  we,  uncle?" 

"  No,  Wally,  no,"  replied  the  old  man  ;  "  everything  I 
hear  about  Miss  Dombey,  now  that  she  is  left  alone,  poor 
lamb,  I'll  write.    I  fear  it  won't  be  much  though,  Wally." 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  "  1  have  just  been  up  there." 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  ?  "  murmured  the  old  man,  raising  his 
eyebrows,  and  his  spectacles  with  them. 

"  Not  to  see  her"  said  Walter,  "  though  I  could  have 
»een  her,  I  dare  say,  if  I  had  asked,  JNIr.  Dombey 
being  out  of  town*  but  to  say  a  parting  word  to  Susan. 
I  thought  I  might  venture  to  do  that,  you  know,  under 
the  circumstimces,  and  remembering  when  I  saw  Miss 
Dombey  last." 

''  Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  rousing  him- 
self from  a  temporary  abstraction. 

"  So  I  saw  her,"  pursued  Walter.  "  Susan,  I  mean : 
and  I  told  her  I  was  off  and  away  to-morrow.  And 
I  said,  uncle,  that  you  had  always  had  an   interest   in 


62  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Miss  Dombej  since  that  night  when  she  was  here,  and 
always  wished  her  well  and  happy,  and  always  would 
be  proud  and  glad  to  serve  her  in  the  leaaft  I  thought 
I  might  say  that,  you  know,  under  the  circumstances. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  in  the  tone 
as  before. 

"  And  I  added,"  pursued  Walter,  "  that  if  she  —  Su' 
Ban,  I  mean  —  could  ever  let  you  know,  either  through 
herself  or  Mrs.  Richards,  or  anybody  else  who  might 
be  coming  this  i^ay,  that  Miss  Dombey  teas  well  and 
happy,  you  would  take  it  very  kindly,  and  would  write 
so  much  to  me,  and  I  should  take  it  very  kindly  too. 
There  !  Upon  my  word,  uncle,"  said  "Walter,  "  I  scarce- 
ly slept  all  last  night  through  thinking  of  doing  this; 
and  could  not  make  up  my  mind  when  I  was  out, 
whether  to  do  it  or  not ;  and  yet  I  am  sure  it  is  the 
true  feeling  of  my  heart,  and  I  should  have  been  quite 
miserable  afterwards  if  I  had  not  relieved  it." 

His  honest  voice  and  manner  corroborated  what  he 
said,  and  quite  established  its  ingenuousness. 

"  So,  if  you  ever  see  her,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  "  I 
mean  Miss  Dombey  now  —  and  perhaps  you  may,  who 
knows  !  —  tell  her  how  much  I  felt  for  her ;  how  much 
I  used  to  think  of  her  when  I  was  here  ;  how  I  spoke 
of  her,  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes,  uncle,  on  this  last 
night  before  I  went  away.  Tell  her  that  I  said  I  never 
could  forget  her  gentle  manner,  or  her  beautiful  face^^ 
t>r  her  sweet  kind  disposition  that  was  better  than  all. 
And  as  I  didn't  take  them  -from  a  woman's  feet,  or  a 
^oung  lady's :  only  a  little  innocent  child's,"  said  Walter  : 
"  tell  her  if  you  don't  mind,  uncle,  that  I  kept  those 
iboes  —  she'll  remember  how  often   they   fell   off,   that 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  M 

night  —  and  took  them  away  with  me  as  a  remem- 
brance ! " 

They  were  at  that  very  moment  going  out  at  the 
door  in  one  of  Walter's  trunks.  A  porter  carrying  oflF 
his  baggage  on  a  truck  for  shipment  at  the  docks  on 
board  the  Son  and  Heir,  had  got  possession  of  them . 
uid  wheeled  them  away  under  the  very  eye  of  the 
insensible  Midshipman  before  their  owner  had  well  fin- 
ished speaking. 

But  that  ancient  mariner  might  have  been  excused 
bis  insensibility  to  the  treasure  as  it  rolled  away.  For, 
under  his  eye  at  the  same  moment,  accurately  within 
his  range  of  observation,  coming  full  into  the  sphere 
of  his  startled  and  intensely  wide-awake  look-out,  were 
Florence  and  Susan  Nipper :  Florence  looking  up  into 
his  lace  half  timidly,  and  receiving  the  whole  shock  of  his 
wooden  ogling  ! 

More  than  this,  they  passed  into  the  shop,  and  passed 
in  at  the  parlor-door  before  they  were  observed  by 
anybody  but  the  Midshipman.  And  Walter,  having  his 
back  to  the  door,  would  have  known  nothing  of  their 
apparition  even  then,  but  for  seeing  his  uncle  spring  out 
of  his  own  chair,  and  nearly  tumble  over  another. 

"  Why  uncle  !  "  exclaimed  Walter.  "  What's  the  mat- 
tor  ?  " 

Old  Solomon  replied,  "  Miss  Dombey  !  " 

"  Is  it  possible  ! "  cried  Walter,  looking  round  and 
Slarting  up  in  his  turn.     "  Here  ! " 

Why  it  was  so  possible  and  so  actual,  that,  while 
the  words  were  on  his  lips,  Florence  hurried  past  him; 
look  Unch  Sol's  snuff-colored  lappels,  one  in  eacli 
hand ;  kissed  him  on  the  cheek ;  an*  turning,  gave 
her    hand    to   Walter   with   a    simple   truth    and    ear- 


M  '  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

neatness  that  was  her  own,  and  no  one  else's  in  the. 
world ! 

"Going  away,  Walter!"  said  Florence. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  replied,  but  not  so  hopefnlly 
as  he  endeavored :  "  I  have  a  voyage  before  me. " 

"  And  your  uncle,"  said  Florence,  looking  back  at 
Solomon.  "  He  is  sorry  you  are  going,  I  am  sure.  Ah ! 
I  see  he  is !     Dear  Walter,  I  am  very  sorry  too." 

"  Goodness  knows,"  exclaimed  Miss  Nipper,  "  there's 
R  many  we  could  spare  instead,  if  numbers  is  a  object, 
Mrs.  Pipchin  as  a  overseer  would  come  cheap  at  her 
weight  in  gold,  and  if  a  knowledge  of  black  slavery 
should  be  required,  them  Blimbers  is  the  very  people 
for  the  sitivvation." 

With  that  Miss  Nipper  untied  her  bonnet-strings, 
and  after  looking  vacantly  for  some  moments  into  a 
little  black  tea-pot  that  was  set  forth  with  the  usual 
homely  service,  on  the  table,  shook  her  head  and  a 
tin  canister,  and  began  unasked  to  make  the  tea. 

In  the  mean  time  Florence  had  turned  again  to  the 
Instrument-maker,  who  was  as  full  of  admiration  as  sur- 
prise. "  So  grown !  "  said  old  Sol.  "  So  improved  ! 
And  yet  not  altered !     Just  the  same  !  " 

"  Indeed !  "  said  Florence. 

"Ye  —  yes,"  returned  old  Sol,  rubbing  his  hands 
gljTvly,  and  considering  the  matter  half  aloud,  as  some- 
thing pensive  in  the  bright  eyes  looking  at  him  arrest<;d 
his  attention.  "  Yes,  that  expression  was  in  the  yoangei 
fece,  too ! " 

"  You  remember  me,"  said  Florence  with  a  smile, 
"  and  what  a  little  creature  I  was  then  ? " 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  returned  the  Instrument - 
maker,  "  how  could  I  forget  you,  often  as  I  have  thought 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  65 

of  j'ou  and  heard  of  you  since  !  At  the  very  moraeut, 
indeed,  when  you  came  in,  Wally  was  talking  about  you 
to  me,  and  leaving  messages  for  you,  and  "  — 

."Was  he?"  said  Florence.  "Thank  you,  Walter! 
Oh  thank  you,  AValter !  I  was  afraid  you  might  be 
going  away  and  hardly  thinking  of  me  ;  "  and  again  she 
gave  him  her  little  hand  so  freely  and  so  faithfully  thai 
Waller  held  it  for  some  moments  in  his  own,  and  could 
not  bear  to  let  it  go. 

Yet  Walter  did  not  hold  it  as  he  might  have  held  it 
once,  nor  did  its  touch  awaken  those  old  day-dreams 
of  his  boyhood  that  had  floated  past  him  sometimes  even 
lately,  and  confused  him  with  their  indistinct  and  broken 
shapes.  The  purity  and  innocence  of  her  endt-aring 
manner,  and  its  perfect  trustfulness,  and  the  undisguised 
regard  for  him  that  lay  so  deeply  seated  in  her  constant 
eyes,  and  glowed  upon  her  fair  face  through  the  smile 
tliat  shaded  —  for  alas!  it  was  a  smile  too  sad  to 
brighten  —  it,  were  not  of  their  romantic  race.  They 
brought  back  to  his  thoughts  the  early  death-bed  he  had 
seen  her  tending,  and  the  love  the  child  had  borne  her ; 
and  on  the  wings  of  such  remembrances  she  seemed 
to  rise  up,  far  above  his  idle  fancies,  into  clearer  and 
screner  air. 

"I  —  I  am  afraid  I  must  call  you  Walter's  uncle, 
sir,"  said  Florence  to  the  old  man,  "  if  you'll  let  me." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  cried  old  Sol.  "Let  you  I 
Good  gracious !  " 

"  We  always  knew  you  by  that  name,  and  talked  of 
you,"  said  Florence,  glancing  round  and  sighing  gently. 
"The  nice  old  parlor!  Just  the  same!  How  well  I 
ri«ollect  it  I " 

Old  Sol  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  his  nephew,  and 

VOL.    II.  5 


66  DOMBEY  a::^)  son. 

then  rubbed  his  hands,  and  rubbed  his  spectacles,  and 
Raid  below  his  breath,  "  Ah  !  time,  time,  time  !  " 

There  was  a  short  silence ;  during  which  Susan  Nip- 
per skilfully  impounded  two  extra  cups  and  saucers  from 
the  cupboard,  and  awaited  the  di'awing  of  the  tea  with  a 
thoughtful  air. 

**  I  want  to  tell  "Walter's  uncle,"  said  Florence,  laying 
her  hand  timidly  upon  the  old  man's  as  it  rested  on  the 
table,  to  bespeak  his  attention,  "  something  that  I  am 
anxious  about.  He  is  going  to  be  left  alone,  and  if  he 
will  allow  me  —  not  to  take  Walter's  place,  for  that  [ 
couldn't  do,  but  to  be  his  true  friend  and  help  him  if  I 
ever  can  while  "Walter  is  away,  I  shall  be  very  much 
obliged  to  him  indeed.  Will  you?  May  I,  Walter's 
uncle?" 

The  Instrument-maker,  without  speaking,  put  her 
hand  to  his  lips,  and  Susan  Nipper,  leaning  back  with 
her  arms  crossed,  in  the  chair  of  presidency  into  which 
she  had  voted  herself,  bit  one  end  of  her  bonnet-strings, 
and  heaved  a  gentle  sigh  as  she  looked  up  at  the  skylight. 

"  You  will  let  me  come  to  see  you,"  said  Florence, 
"  when  I  can  ;  and  you  will  tell  me  everything  about 
yourself  and  Walter ;  and  you  will  have  no  secrets  from 
Susan  when  she  comes  and  I  do  not,  but  will  confide 
in  us,  and  trust  us,  and  rely  upon  us.  And  you'll  try  to 
let  us  be  a  comfort  to  you  ?     Will  you,  Walter's  uncle  ?  " 

The  sweet  face  looking  into  his,  the  gently  pleading 
eyes,  the  soft  voice,  and  the  light  touch  on  his  arm,  made 
the  more  winning  by  a  child's  respect  and  honor  for  his 
age,  that  gave  to  all  an  air  of  graceful  doubt  and  modest 
hesitation  —  these,  and  her  natural  earnestness,  so  over- 
came the  poor  old  Instrument-maker,  that  he  only  an* 
Bwered 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  67 

*•  W^ally  I  say  a  word  for  me,  my  dear.  I'm  very 
p-ateful." 

"No,  Walter,"  returned  Florence  with  her  quiet  smile. 
*  Say  nothing  for  him,  if  you  please.  I  understand  him 
tery  well,  and  we  must  learn  to  talk  together  without 
*ou,  dear  "Walter." 

The  regretful  tone  in  which  she  said  these  latter 
words,  touched  Walter  more  than  all  the  rest- 

"  Miss  Florence,"  he  replied,  with  an  effort  to  recover 
the  cheerful  manner  he  had  preserved  while  talking  with 
his  uncle,  "  I  know  no  more  than  ray  uncle,  what  to  say 
in  acknowledgment  of  such  kindness,  1  am  sure.  But 
what  could  I  say,  after  all,  if  I  had  the  power  of  talking 
for  an  hour,  except  that  it  is  like  you  ?  " 

Susan  Nipper  began  upon  a  t\k^  part  of  her  bonnet- 
gtring,  and  nodded  at  the  skylight,  in  approval  of  the 
sentiment  expressed. 

"Oh  I  but  Walter,"  said  Florence,  "there  is  some- 
thing that  I  wish  to  say  to  you  before  you  go  away,  and 
you  must  call  me  Florence  if  you  please,  and  not  speak 
like  a  stranger." 

"  Like  a  stranger  ! "  returned  Walter.  "  No.  I  could- 
o't  speak  so.  I  am  sure,  at  least,  I  couldn't  feel  like 
one." 

"  Ay,  but  that  is  not  enough,  and  is  not  what  1  mean. 
For  Walter,"  added  Florence,  bursting  fnto  tears,  "  he 
liked  you  very  much,  and  said  before  he  died  that  he  was 
fond  of  you,  and  said  '  Remember  Walter  I '  and  if  you'll 
be  a  brother  to  me  Walter,  now  that  he  is' gone  and  I 
liave  none  on  earth,  I'll  be  your  sister  all  ray  life,  and 
iliink  ot  you  like  one  wherever  we  may  be  !  Thif  is 
wliat  I  wished  to  say,  dear  Walter  but  I  cannot  say  it  as 
I  would,  because  ray  lieart  is  full." 


88  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

And  in  ita  fulness  and  its  sweet  simplicity,  she  held 
out  both  her  hands  to  him.  Walter  taking  them,  stooped 
down  and  touched  the  tearful  face  that  neither  shrunk 
nor  turned  away,  nor  reddened  as  he  did  so,  but  looked 
up  at  him  with  confidence  and  truth.  In  that  one  mo- 
ment, every  shadow  of  doubt  or  agitation  passed  away 
from  Walter's  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  responded 
Ui  her  innocent  appeal,  beside  the  dead  child's  bed :  and, 
in  the  solemn  presence  he  had  seen  there,  pledged  him- 
Belf  to  cherish  and  protect  her  very  image,  in  his  banish* 
ment,  with  bi'otherly  regard ;  to  garner  up  her  simple 
faith,  inviolate  ;  and  hold  himself  degraded  if  he  breathed 
upon  it  any  thought  that  was  not  in  her  own  breast  when 
she  gave  it  to  him. 

Susan  Nipper,  who  had  bitten  both  her  bonnet-strings 
at  once,  and  imparted  a  great  deal  of  private  emotion  to 
the  skylight,  during  this  transaction,  now  changed  the 
subject  by  inquiring  who  took  milk  and  who  took  sugar  ; 
and  being  enlightened  on  these  points,  poured  out  the 
tea.  They  all  four  gathered  socially  about  the  little 
tablf,  and  took  tea  under  that  young  lady's  active  super- 
intendence; and  the  presence  of  Florence  in  the  back- 
parlor,  biightened  the  Tartar  frigate  on  the  wall. 

Half  an  hour  ago,  Walter,  for  his  life,  would  have 
burdly  called  her  by  her  name.  But  he  could  do  so  now 
when  she  entreated  him.  He  could  think  o<"  her  being 
there,  without  a  lurking  misgiving  that  it  would  have 
been  better  if  she  had  not  come.  He  could  ciilmly  think 
how  beautiful  she  was,  how  full  of  promise,  what  a  home 
iome  happy  man  would  find  in  such  a  heart  one  day. 
He  could  reflect  upon  his  own  place  in  that  heart,  with 
pride ;  and  with  a  brave  determination,  if  not  to  deserve 
"'t  —  he  si  ill  thoaght  that  far  above  him  —  never  to  de- 
•jerve  it  leas 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  69 

Some  fairy  influence  must  surely  have  hovered  round 
the  hands  o/  Susan  Nipper  when  she  made  the  tea, 
engendering  the  tranquil  air  that  reigned  in  the  back- 
parlor  during  its  discussion.  Some  counter-influence 
must  surely  have  hovered  round  the  hands  cf  Uncle 
Sol's  chronometer,  and  moved  them  faster  than  the 
Tartar  frigate  ever  went  before  the  wind.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  the  visitors  had  a  coach  in  waiting  at  a  quiet 
corner  not  far  off;  and  the  chronometer,  on  being  in- 
cidentally referred  to,  gave  such  a  positive  opinion  that 
it  had  been  waiting  a  long  time,  that  it  was  impossible 
to  doubt  the  fact,  especially  when  stated  on  such  unim- 
peacliable  authority.  If  Uncle  Sol  had  been  going  to  be 
hanged  by  his  own  time,  he  never  would  have  allowed 
that  the  chronometer  was  too  fast,  by  the  least  fraction 
of  a  second. 

Florence  at  parting  recapitulated  to  the  old  man  all 
that  she  had  said  before,  and  bound  him  to  their  compact. 
Uncle  Sol  attended  her  lovingly  to  the  legs  of  the  wooden 
Midshipman,  and  there  i-esigned  her  to  Walter,  who  was 
ready  to  escort  her  and  Susan  Nipper  to  the  coach. 

"  Waller,"  said  Florence  by  the  way,  "  I  have  been 
afraid  to  ask  before  your  uncle.  Do  you  think  you  will 
be  absent  very  long  ?  " 

"Indeed,"  said  Walter,  "I  don't  know.  I  fear  so. 
Mr.  Dombey  signified  as  much,  I  thought,  when  he  ap- 
pointed me." 

"Is  it  a  favor,  Walter?"  inquired  Florence,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  and  looking  anxiously  in  his  face. 

"  The  appointment  ?  "  returned  Walter. 

«  Yes." 

Walter  would  have  given  anything  to  have  answered 
In  the  affirmative,  but  his  face  answered  before  his  lip» 


70  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

could,  utid  Florence  was  too  attentive  to  it  not  to  under- 
stand its  reply. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  scarcely  been  a  favorite  with 
papa,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"There  is  no  reason,"  replied  Walter,  smiling,  "why 
I  should  be." 

"  No  reason,  Walter !  " 

•'  There  was  no  reason,"  said  Walter,  understanding 
what  she  meant.  "  There  are  many  people  employed 
in  the  house.  Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  a  young  man 
like  me,  there's  a  wide  space  of  separation.  If  I  do  my 
duty,  I  do  what  I  ought,  and  do  no  more  than  all  the 
rest." 

Had  Florence  any  misgiving  of  which  she  was  hardly 
conscious :  any  misgiving  that  had  sprung  into  an  indis- 
tinct and  undefined  existence  since  that  recent  night 
when  she  had  gone  down  to  her  father's  room :  that 
Walter'p  accidental  interest  in  her,  and  early  knowledge 
of  her,  might  have  involved  him  in  that  powerful  dis- 
pleasure and  dislike  ?  Had  Walter  any  such  idea,  or 
any  sudden  thought  that  it  was  in  her  mind  at  that  mo- 
ment? Neither  of  them  hinted  at  it.  Neither  of  them 
spoke  at  all,  for  some  short  time.  Susan,  walking  on  the 
other  side  of  Walter,  eyed  them  both  sharply  ;  and  cer- 
tainly Miss  Nipper's  thoughts  travelled  in  that  direction, 
and  very  confidently  too. 

"  You  may  come  back  very  soon,"  said  Florence, 
"  perhaps,  Walter." 

**  I  TOoy  come  back,"  said  Walter,  "  an  old  man,  and 
And  you  an  old  lady.     But  I  hope  for  better  things." 

"  Papa,"  said  Florence,  after  a  moment,  "  will  —  will 
recover  from  his  grief,  and  —  speak  more  freely  to  me 
one  day,  pei-haps ;  and  if  he  should,  I  will  tell  him  how 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  71 

much  I  wish  (o  see  you  back  again,  and  ask  him  to  recall 
you  for  my  sake." 

There  was  a  touching  modulation  in  these  words  about 
her  father  that  Walter  understood  too  well. 

The  coach  being  close  at  hand,  he  would  have  left  het 
without  speaking,  for  now  he  felt  what  parting  was ;  but 
Florence  held  his  hand  when  she  was  seated,  and  theu 
he  four.d  there  was  a  little  packet  in  her  own. 

"  Walter,"  she  said,  looking  full  upon  him  with  her 
affectionate  eyes,  "  like  you,  I  hope  for  better  things.  I 
will  pray  for  them,  and  believe  that  they  will  arrive.  I 
made  this  little  gift  for  Paul.  Pray  take  it  with  my  love, 
and  do  not  look  at  it  until  you  are  gone  away.  And  now, 
God  bless  you,  Walter  !  never  forget  rae.  You  are  my 
brother,  dear !  " 

He  was  glad  that  Susan  Nipper  came  between  them, 
or  he  might  have  left  her  with  a  soiTowful  remembrance 
of  him.  He  was  glad  too  that  she  did  not  look  out  of 
the  coach  again,  but  waved  the  little  hand  to  him  instead. 
as  long  as  he  could  see  it. 

In  spite  of  her  request,  he  could  not  help  opening  the 
packet  that  night  when  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  a  little 
purse :  and  there  was  money  in  it. 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  morning,  from  his  absence  in 
strange  countries,  and  up  rose  Walter  with  it  to  receive 
tht  captain,  who  was  ali-eady  at  the  door :  having  turned 
out  earlier  than  was  necessary,  in  order  to  get  under 
weigh  while  Mrs.  iNIacStinger  was  yet  slumbering.  The 
captain  pretended  to  be  in  tip-top  spirits,  and  brought  a 
very  smoky  tongue  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  the  broad 
blue  coat  for  breakfast. 

"  And  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  when  they  took  their 
leats  at  table,  "  if  your  un'-Je's  the  man  I  think  him,  he'll 


72  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

bring  out  the  last  bottle  of  the  Madeira  on  the  present 
occasion." 

"  No,  no,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man.  **  No !  That 
shall  be  opened  when  Walter  comes  home  again." 

*'  Well  said  !  "  cried  the  captain.     "  Hear  him  !  " 

"There  it  hes,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "down  in  the  litlle 
cellar,  covered  with  dirt  and  cobwebs.  There  may  be 
dirt  and  cobwebs  over  you  and  me  perhaps,  Ned,  before 
it  sees  the  light." 

"  Hear  him  !  "  cried  the  captain.  "  Good  morality  \ 
Wal'r  my  lad.  Train  up  a  fig-tree  in  the  way  it  should 
go,  and  when  you  are  old  sit  under  the  shade  on  it. 
Overhaul  the  —  Well,"  said  the  captain  on  second 
thoughts,  "  I  a'n't  quite  certain  where  that's  to  be  found ; 
but  when  found,  make  a  note  of.  Sol  Gills,  heave  ahead 
again  ! " 

"  But  there,  or  somewhere,  it  shall  lie,  Ned,  until 
Wally  comes  back  to  claim  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "  That's 
all  I  meant  to  say." 

"  And  well  said  too,"  returned  the  captain  ;  "  and  if 
we  three  don't  crack  that  bottle  in  company,  I'll  give  you 
two  leave  to  drink  my  allowance  !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  captain's  excessive  joviality,  he 
made  but  a  poor  hand  at  the  smoky  tongue,  though  he 
tried  very  hard,  when  anybody  looked  at  him,  to  appear 
as  if  he  were  eating  with  a  vast  appetite.  He  was  terri- 
bly afraid,  likewise,  of  being  left  alone  with  either  uncle 
or  nephew  ;  appearing  to  consider  that  his  only  chancer-_ 
of  safety  as  to  keeping  up  appearances,  was  in  their 
!ieing  always  three  together.  This  terror  on  the  part  of 
the  captain,  reduced  him  to  such  ingenious  evasions  as 
running  to  the  door,  when  Solomon  went  to  put  his  coat 
on,   under   pretence   of  having   seen  an   extraordinary 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  73 

hackney -coach  pass:  and  darting  out  into  tin;  road  when 
Walter  went  up-stairs  to  take  leave  of  the  lodgers,  on  a 
feint  of  smelling  fire  in  a  neighboring  chimney.  These 
artitices  Captain  Cuttle  deemed  inscrutable  by  any  unin- 
spired observer. 

Walter  was  coming  down  from  his  parting  expedition 
up-stairs,  and  was  crossing  the  shop  to  go  back  to  the 
little  parlor,  when  he  saw  a  faded  face  he  knew,  looking 
in  at  the  door,  and  darted  towards  it. 

"  Mr.  Carker  1 "  cried  Walter,  pressing  the  hand  of 
John  Carker  the  Junior.  "  Pray  come  in !  This  is 
kind  of  you,  to  be  here  so  early  to  say  good-by  to  rae. 
You  knew  how  glad  it  would  make  me  to  shake  hands 
with  you,  once,  before  going  away.  I  cannot  say  how 
glad  I  am  to  have  this  opportunity.     Pray  come  in." 

"  It  is  not  likely  that  we  may  ever  meet  again 
Walter,"  returned  the  other,  gently  resisting  his  invita 
lion,  "  and  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  too.  I  may 
venture  to  speak  to  you,  and  to  take  you  by  the  hand 
on  the  eve  of  separation,  I  shall  not  have  to  resist  youi 
frank  approaches,  Walter,  any  more." 

There  was  a  melancholy  in  his  smile  as  he  said  ity 
that  showed  he  had  found  some  company  and  friendship 
for  his  thoughts  even  in  that. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Carker!"  returned  Walter.  "Why  did 
you  resist  them  ?  You  could  have  done  me  nothing  but 
good,  I  am  very  sure." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  If  there  were  any  good,*  he 
{aid,  "  I  could  do  on  this  earth,  I  would  do  it,  Walter, 
for  you.  The  sight  of  you  from  day  to  day,  has  been  at 
once  happiness  and  remorse  to  me.  But  the  pleasure 
has  outweighed  the  pain.  I  know  that,  now,  by  knowing 
what  I  lose." 


74  DOMbEY  ANJ  SON. 

"  Come  in,  Mr.  Carker,  and  make  acquaintance  with 
ttiy  good  old  uncle,"  urged  Walter.  "  I  have  often  talked 
to  him  about  you,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  tell  you  all  he 
hears  from  me.  I  have  not,"  said  Walter,  noticing  his 
hesitation,  and  speaking  with  embarrassment  himself* 
•*  I  have  not  told  him  anything  about  our  last  txjnvor- 
ERtion^  Mr.  Carker ;  not  even  him,  believe  me." 

The  gray  Junior  pressed  his  hand,  and  tears  rose  in 
his  eyas. 

*'  If  T  ever  make  acquaintance  with  him,  Walter,"  he 
returned,  '"  it  will  be  that  I  may  hear  tidings  of  you. 
Rely  on  my  not  wronging  your  forbearance  and  consid- 
eration. It  would  be  to  wrong  it,  not  to  tell  him  all  the 
truth,  before  I  sought  a  word  of  confidence  from  him. 
But  I  have  no  friend  or  acquaintance  except  you  :  and 
even  for  your  sake,  am  little  likely  to  make  any." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Walter,  "  you  had  suffered  me  to  be 
your  friend  indeed.  I  always  wished  it,  Mr.  Carker,  as 
you  know  ;  but  never  half  so  much  as  now,  when  we 
are  going  to  part." 

"  It  is  enough,"  replied  the  other,  "  that  you  have 
been  the  friend  of  my  own  breast,  and  that  when  I  have 
avoided  you  most,  my  heart  inclined  the  mo.-t  towards 
you,  and  was  fullest  of  you.     Walter,  good-by !  " 

*'  Grood-by,  Mr.  Carker.  Heaven  be  with  you,  sir  !  ' 
cried  Walter,  with  emotion. 

"If,"  said  the  other,  retaining  his  hand  while  he 
spoke ;  "  if  when  you  come  back,  you  miss  me  from  my  - 
,>ld  comer,  and  should  hear  from  any  one  where  I  am 
lying,  come  and  look  upon  my  grave.  Think  that  I 
might  have  been  as  honest  and  as  happy  as  you  !  And 
let  me  think,  when  I  know  my  time  is  coning  on,  that 
Bome  one  like  my  former  self   may  stand   there,  for  8 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  75 

moment,  and  remember  me  with  pity  and  forgiveness ! 
Walter,  good-by !  " 

His  figure  crept  like  a  shadow  down  the  bright,  sun- 
lighted  street,  so  cheerful  yet  so  solemn  in  the  early 
summer  morning  ;  and  slowly  passed  away. 

The  relentless  chronometer  at  last  announced  tha 
Walter  must  turn  his  back  upon  the  Wooden  Midshi]- 
man  :  and  away  they  went,  himselt^  his  uncle,  and  the 
captain,  in  a  hackney-coach  to  a  wharf,  where  they  were 
to  take  steamboat  for  some  Reach  down  the  river,  the 
name  of  which,  as  the  captain  gave  it  out,  was  a  hope- 
less mystery  to  the  ears  of  landsmen.  Arrived  at  this 
Reach  (whither  the  ship  had  repaired  by  last  night's 
tide),  they  were  boarded  by  various  excited  watermen, 
and  among  others  by  a  dirty  Cyclops  of  the  captain's 
acquaintance,  who,  with  his  one  eye,  had  made  the  cap- 
tain out  some  mile  and  a  half  off,  and  had  been  ex- 
changing unintelligible  roars  with  him  ever  since.  Be- 
coming the  lawful  prize  of  this  personage,  who  waa 
frightfully  hoarse  and  constitutionally  in  want  of  shav- 
ing, they  were  all  thi-ee  put  aboard  the  Son  and  Heir. 
And  the  Son  and  Heir  was  in  a  pretty  state  of  confu- 
sion, with  sails  lying  all  bedraggled  on  the  wet  decks, 
loose  ropes  tripping  people  up,  men  in  red  shirts  run- 
ning barefoot  to  and  fro,  casks  blockading  every  foot  of 
upace,  and,  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray,  a  black  cook  in  a 
black  caboose  up  to  his  eyes  in  vegetables  and  blinded 
with  smoke. 

The  captain  immediately  drew  Walter  into  a  corner, 
and  with  a  great  effort,  that  made  his  face  very  red- 
pulled  up  the  silver  watch  which  was  so  big,  and  so 
Sght  in  his  pocket,  that  it  came  out  like  a  bung. 

"  Wal'r,'"  said  the  c<iptain,  handing  it  over,  and  shak- 


76  DUMBEY  Am)  SON. 

Ing  hirn  heartily  by  the  hand,  "  a  parting  gift,  my  lad. 
Put  it  back  half  an  hour  every  morning,  and  about 
another  quarter  towards  the  arternoon,  and  it's  a  watch 
that'll  do  you  credit." 

"  Captain  Cuttle  !  I  couldn't  think  of  it !  "  cried  Wal- 
ler, detaining  him,  for  he  was  running  away.  "  Pray 
take  it  back.     I  have  one  already." 

"  Then  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  suddenly  diving  irlo 
one  of  liis  pockets  and  bringing  up  the  two  teaspotms 
and  the  sugar-tongs,  with  which  he  had  armed  himself 
to  meet  sucli  an  objection,  "  Take  this  here  trifle  of 
plate,  instead." 

"  No,  no,  I  couldn't  indeed  !  "  cried  WaUer,  "  a  thou- 
sand thanks  !  Don't  throw  tliera  away,  Captain  Cuttle  ! " 
for  the  captain  was  about  to  jerk  them  overboard. 
"They'll  be  of  much  more  use  to  you  than  me.  Give 
me  your  stick.  I  have  often  thought  that  I  should  like 
to  have  it.  There !  Good-by,  Captain  Cuttle  !  Take 
care  of  my  uncle  !     Uncle  Sol,  God  bless  you !  " 

They  were  over  the  side  in  the  confusion,  before 
Walter  caught  another  glimpse  of  either ;  and  when  he 
ran  up  to  the  stern,  and  looked  after  them,  he  saw  his 
uncle  hanging  down  his  head  in  the  boat,  and  Captain 
Cuttle  rapping  him  on  the  back  with  the  great  silver 
watch  (it  must  have  been  very  painful),  and  gesticu- 
lating hopefully  with  the  teaspoons  and  sugar-tongs. 
Catching  sight  of  Walter,  Captain  Cuttle  dropped  the 
property  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with  perfect  uncon- 
cern, being  evidently  oblivious  of  its  existence,  and  pub 
ling  off  the  glazed  hat  hailed  him  lustily.  The  glazed 
6at  made  quite  a  show  in  the  sun  with  its  glistening,  and 
the  captain  continued  to  wave  it  until  he  could  be  seen 
IK>  longer.     Then  the  confusion  on  board,  which   had 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  77 

been  rapidly  increasing,  reached  its  height ;  two  or  three 
other  boats  went  away  with  a  cheer ;  the  sails  shone 
bright  and  full  above,  as  Walter  watched  them  spread 
their  surface  to  the  favorable  breeze;  the  water  flew 
in  sparkles  from  the  prow  ;  and  off  upon  her  voyage 
went  the  Son  and  Heir,  as  hopefully  and  trippingly  as 
many  another  son  and  heir,  gone  down,  had  started  on 
his  way  befbre  her. 

Day  after  day,  Old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  kept  her 
reckoning  in  the  little  back  parlor  and  worked  out  her 
course  with  the  chart  spread  before  thera  on  the  round 
table.  At  night,  when  old  Sol  climbed  up-stairs,  so 
lonely,  to  the  attic  where  it  sometimes  blew  great  guns, 
he  looked  up  at  the  stars  and  listened  to  the  wind,  and 
kept  a  longer  watch  than  would  have  fallen  to  his  lot 
on  board  the  ship.  The  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira, 
which  had  had  its  cruising  days,  and  known  its  dangers 
of  the  deep,  lay  silently  beneath  its  dust  and  cobwebs, 
in  the  mean  while,  undisturbed. 


DOMBET  Alh)  SON. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MR.  DOMBET  GOES  UPON  A  JOURNEY. 

"  Mb.  Dombet,  sir,"  said  Major  Bagstock,  "  Joey  R 
is  not  in  general  a  man  of  sentiment,  for  Joseph  ia 
tough.  But  Joe  has  his  feelings,  sir,  and  when  they  are 
awakened  —  Damme,  Mr.  Dombey,"  cried  the  major 
with  sudden  ferocity,  "  this  is  weakness,  and  I  won't  sub- 
mit to  it ! " 

Major  Bagstock  delivered  himself  of  these  expressions 
on  receiving  Mr.  Dombey  as  his  guest  at  the  head  of  his 
own  staircase  in  Princess's-place.  Mr.  Dombey  had 
come  to  breakfast  with  the  major,  previous  to  their  set- 
ting forth  on  their  trip  ;  and  the  ill-starred  native  had 
already  undergone  a  world  of  misery  arising  out  of  the 
muffins,  while,  in  connection  with  the  general  question 
of  boiled  eggs,  life  was  a  burden  to  him. 

"  It  is  not  for  an  old  soldier  of  the  Bagstock  breed;" 
observed  the  major,  relapsing  into  a  mild  state,  "  to  de- 
liver himself  up,  a  prey  to  his  own  emotions ;  but  — 
damme,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  in  another  spasm  of  feroc- 
ity, "  I  condole  with  you  !  " 

The  major's  purple  visage  deepened  in  its  hue,  and 
the  major's  lobster  eyes  stood  out  in  bolder  relief,  as  he 
shook  Mr.  Dombey  by  the  hand,  imparting  to  that 
oeaceful  action  as  defiant  a  character  as  if  it  had  been 
the  prelude  to  his  immediately  boxing  Mr.  Dombey  for 


DCMBEY  AND  SON.  79 

a  thousand  pounds  a  side  and  the  championship  of  Eng- 
land.  With  a  rotatory  motion  of  his  head,  and  a  Avheeze 
very  like  the  cough  of  a  horse,  the  major  tlien  conducted 
his  visitor  to  the  sitting-room,  and  there  welcomed  him 
(having  now  composed  his  feelings)  with  the  freedom 
and  frankness  of  a  travelling  companion. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I'm 
proud  to  see  you.  There  are  not  many  men  in  Europe 
to  whom  J.  Bagstock  would  say  that  —  for  Josh  is  blunt, 
sir:  it's  his  nature  —  but  .Joey  B.  is  proud  to  see  you, 
Dombey." 

"  Major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  very  oblig- 
ing." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  Devil  a  bit !  That's  not 
ray  character.  If  that  had  been  Joe's  character,  Joe 
might  have  been,  by  this  time,  Lieutenant-General  Sir 
Josejih  Bagstock,  K.  C.  B.,  and  might  have  received  you 
in  very  different  quarters.  You  don't  know  old  .Jot  yet, 
I  find.  But  this  occasion,  being  special,  is  a  source  oi 
pride  to  me.  By  the  Lord,  sir,"  said  the  major,  reso- 
lutely, "  it's  an  honor  to  me  ! " 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  estimation  of  himself  and  hia 
money,  felt  that  this  was  very  true,  and  therefore  did  not 
dispute  the  point.  But  the  instinctive  recognition  of 
Buch  a  truth  by  the  major,  and  his  plain  avowal  of  it, 
were  very  agreeable.  It  was  a  confirmation  to  Mr. 
Dombey,  if  he  had  required  any,  of  his  not  being  mis- 
taken in  the  major.  It  was  an  assurance  to  him  that  his 
power  extended  beyond  his  own  immediate  sphere ;  and 
that  the  major,  as  an  otficer  and  a  gentleman,  had  a  no 
Vjss  becoming  sense  of  it,  than  the  beadle  of  the  Koyal 
Exchange. 

And  if  it  were  ever  consolatory  to  know  this,  or  the 


80  DOMBEY  ANL»   SON. 

like  of  this,  it  was  consolatory  then,  wlien  the  iinpotenc* 
of  his  will,  the  instability  of  his  hopes,  the  feebleness  of 
wealth,  had  been  so  direfully  impressed  upon  him. 
What  could  it  do,  his  boy  had  asked  him.  Sometimes, 
thinking  of  the  baby  question,  he  could  hardly  forbvar 
inquiring,  himself,  what  coidd  it  do  indeed :  what  had  it 
(lone  ? 

But  these  were  lonely  thoughts,  bred  late  at  night  in 
tlie  sullen  despondency  and  gloom  of  his  retirement,  and 
pride  easily  found  its  reassurance  in  many  testimonies  to 
the  truth,  as  unimpeachable  and  precious  as  the  major's. 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  friendlessness,  inclined  to  the  major. 
It  cannot  be  said  that  he  warmed  towards  him,  but  he 
thawed  a  little.  The  major  had  had  some  part  —  and 
not  too  much  —  in  the  days  by  the  seaside.  He  was  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  knew  some  great  people.  He 
talked  much,  and  told  stories  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  was  dis- 
posed to  regiird  him  as  a  choice  spirit  who  shone  in 
society,  and  who  had  not  that  poisonous  ingredient  of 
poverty  with  which  choice  spirits  in  general  are  too 
much  adulterated.  His  station  was  undeniable.  Alto- 
gether the  major  was  a  creditable  companion,  well  accus- 
tomed to  a  life  of  leisure,  and  to  such  places  as  that  they 
were  about  to  visit,  and  having  an  air  of  gentlemanly 
ease  about  him  that  mixed  well  enough  with  his  own  city 
cliaracter,  and  did  not  compete  with  it  at  all.  If  Mr. 
Dombey  had  any  lingering  idea  that  the  major,  as  a  man 
accustomed,  in  the  way  of  his  calling,  to  make  light  of - 
the  ruthlrss  hand  that  had  lately  crushed  his  hopes, 
might  unconsciously  impart  some  useful  philosophy  to 
him,  and  scare  away  his  weak  regrets,  he  hid  it  from 
himself,  and  lef^  it  lying  at  the  bottom  of  his  pride,  un- 
examined. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  81 

"  Where  is  my  scoundrel ! "  said  the  Tiajur,  looking 
lerathfully  round  the  room. 

The  native,  who  had  no  particular  name,  but  answered 
to  any  vituperative  epithet,  presented  himself"  instantly 
at  the  door,  and  ventured  to  come  no  nearer. 

''  You  villain  !"  said  the  choleric  major,  "  where's  the 
bieakfast  ?  " 

The  dark  servant  disappeared  in  search  of  it,  and  was 
quickly  heard  reascending  the  stairs  in  such  a  tremulotiB 
istate,  that  the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  tray  he  carried, 
trembling  sympathetically  as  he  came,  rattled  again  all 
the  way  up. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  glancing  at  the  native  aa 
he  arranged  the  table,  and  encouraging  him  with  an 
awful  shake  of  his  fist  when  he  upset  a  spoon,  "  here  is 
a  devilled  grill,  a  savory  pie,  a  dish  of  kidneys,  and  so 
forth.  Pray  sit  down.  Old  Joe  can  give  you  nothing 
but  camp  fare,  you  see." 

"  Very  excellent  fare,  major,"  replied  his  guest ;  and 
not  in  mere  politeness  either ;  for  the  major  always  took 
the  best  possible  cai*e  of  himself,  and  indeed  ate  rather 
more  of  rich  meats  than  was  good  for  him,  insomuch 
that  his  Imperial  complexion  was  mainly  referred  by  the 
faculty  to  that  circumstance. 

"  You  have  been  looking  over  the  way,  sir,"  observed 
the  major.     "  Have  you  seen  our  friend  ?  " 

"  You  mean  Miss  Tox,"  retorted  Mr.  Dombey.   "  No." 

'•  Charming  woman,  sir,"  said  the  major,  with  a  fat 
laugh  rising  in  his  short  throat,  and  nearly  suffocating 
aim. 

"  Miss  Tox  is  a  very  good  sort  of  person,  I  believe," 
replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  haughty  coldness  of  the  reply  seemed  to  afford 


82  DOMBET  AND  SOW. 

Major  Bagstock  infinite  delight.  He  swelled  and 
swelled,  exceedingly ;  and  even  laid  down  his  knife 
and  fork  for  a  moment,  to  rub  his  hands, 

"  Old  Joe,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  was  a  bit  of  a  favorw 
ite  in  that  quarter  once.  But  Joe  has  had  his  day  J, 
Bagstock  is  extinguished  —  outrivalled  —  floored,  sir. 
I  tell  you  what,  Dorabey."  The  major  paused  in  his 
eating,  and  looked  mysteriously  indignant.  "  That's  a 
de-vilish  ambitious  woman,  sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  said  "  Indeed ! "  with  frigid  indifference : 
mingled  perhaps  with  some  contemptuous  incredulity  as 
to  Miss  Tox  having  the  presumption  to  harbor  such  a 
superior  quality. 

"  That  woman,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  is,  in  her  way,  a 
Lucifer.  Joey  B.  has  had  his  day,  sir,  but  he  keeps  his 
eyes.  He  sees,  does  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the 
late  Duke  of  York  observed  of  Joey,  at  a  levee,  that 
he  saw." 

The  major  accompanied  this  with  such  a  look,  and,  be- 
tween eating,  drinking,  hot  tea,  devilled  grill,  muffins, 
and  meaning,  was  altogether  so  swollen  and  inflamed 
about  the  head,  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  showed  some 
anxiety  for  him. 

"  That  ridiculous  old  spectacle,  sir,"  pursued  the  major, 
"aspires.  She  aspires  sky-high,  sir.  Matrimonially, 
Dombey." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  iu  a_ 
warning  voice. 

"  Why  should  I  not,  major  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dorabey. 

The  major  gave  no  answer  but  the  horse's  cough,  and 
went  on  eating  vigorously.  * 

**  She  has  taken  an  interest  in  your  household,"  saiJ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  88 

'he  major,  stopping  short  again,  "  and  been  a  frequent 
visitor  at  your  house  for  some  time  now." 

*'  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dorabey  with  great  statelinesa, 
**  Miss  Tox  was  originaliy  received  there,  at  the  time  of 
Mrs.  Dorabey's  death,  as  a  friend  of  my  sister's ;  and 
being  a  well-behaved  person,  and  showing  a  liking  for 
the  poor  infant,  she  was  permitted  —  I  may  say  encour 
hged  —  to  repeat  her  visits,  with  my  sister,  and  grad* 
ually  to  occupy  a  kind  of  footing  of  familiarity  in  tho 
family.  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey,  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  who  was  making  a  great  and  valuable  concession, 
"  I  have  a  respect  for  Miss  Tox.  She  has  been  so 
obliging  as  to  render  many  little  services  in  my  house : 
trifling  and  insignificant  services  perhaps,  major,  but  not 
to  be  disparaged  on  that  account :  and  I  hope  I  have 
had  the  good  fortune  to  be  enabled  to  acknowledge  them 
by  such  attention  and  notice  as  it  has  been  in  my  power 
to  bestow.  I  hold  myself  indebted  to  Miss  Tox,  major," 
added  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand,  '•  for 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major  warmly  ;  ''  no  !  No,  sir  ! 
Joseph  Bagstock  can  never  permit  that  assertion  to  pass 
uncontradicted.  Your  knowledge  of  old  Joe,  sir,  such 
as  he  is,  and  old  Joe's  knowledge  of  you,  sir,  had  ita 
origin  in  a  noble  fellow,  sir  —  in  a  great  creature,  sir. 
Dombey  ! "  said  the  major,  with  a  struggle  which  it  was 
not  very  difficult  to  parade,  his  whole  life  being  a  strug- 
gle against  all  kinds  of  apoplectic  symptoms,  "  we  knew 
each  other  through  your  boy." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  touched,  as  it  is  not  improbable 
the  major  designed  he  should  be,  by  this  allusion.  H<? 
looked  down  and  sighed :  and  the  major,  rousing  himself 
fiercely,  again  said,  in  reference  to  the  state  of  mind  into 


84  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

which  he  felt  himself  in  danger  of  falling,  that  this  was 
weakness,  and  nothing  should  induce  him  to  submit  to  it. 

"  Our  friend  had  aremote  connection  with  that  event," 
said  the  major,  "  and  all  the  credit  that  belongs  to  her, 
J.  B.  is  willing  to  give  her,  sir.  Notwithstanding  which, 
ma'am,"  he  added,  raising  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and 
casting  them  across  Princess's-place,  to  where  Miss  Tox 
was  at  that  moment  visible  at  her  window  watering  her 
flowers,  "  you're  a  scheming  jade,  ma'am,  and  your  am- 
bition is  a  piece  of  monstrous  impudence.  If  it  only 
made  yourself  ridiculous,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  rolling 
his  head  at  the  unconscious  Miss  Tox,  while  his  start- 
ing eyes  appeared  to  make  a  leap  towards  her,  "  you 
might  do  that  to  your  heart's  content,  ma'am,  without 
any  objection,  I  assure  you,  on  the  part  of  Bagstock." 
Here  the  major  laughed  frightfully  up  in  the  tips  of  his 
ears  and  in  the  veins  of  his  head.  "  But  when,  ma'am," 
said  the  major,  "  you  compromise  other  people,  and  gen- 
erous, unsuspicious  people  too,  as  a  repayment  for  their 
condescension,  you  stir  the  blood  of  old  Joe  in  his  body." 

"  Major,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  reddening,  "  I  hope  you 
do  not  hint  at  anything  so  absurd  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Tox  as  "  — 

"Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  "I  him  at  ncthing. 
But  Joey  B.  has  lived  in  the  world,  sir:  lived  in  iho 
world  with  his  eyes  open,  sir,  and  his  ears  cocked  :  and 
Joe  tells  you,  Dombey,  that  there's  a  de-vilish  artful  and 
•rirabitious  woman  over  the  way." 

Mr.  Dombey  involuntarily  glanced  over  the  way ;  and 
an  angry  glance  he  sent  in  that  direction,  too. 

"  That's  all  on  such  a  subject  that  shall  pass  the  lips 
of  J  oseph  Bagstock,"  said  the  major  firmly.  "  Joe  is  not 
a  talft-beat'cr,  but  there  are  times  when  he.  must  speak 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  80 

when  he  will  speak  !  —  confound  your  arts,  ma'am," 
cried  the  major,  again  apostrophizing  his  fair  neigh- 
bor, with  great  ire  — "  when  the  provocation  is  too 
strong  to  admit  of  his  remaining  silent." 

The  emotion  of  this  outbreak  threw  the  major  into  a 
paroxysm  of  horse's  couglns,  which  held  him  for  a  long 
lime.     On  recovering  he  added  : 

"  And  now,  Dombey,  as  you  have  invited  Joe  —  old 
Joe,  who  has  no  other  merit,  sir,  but  that  he  is  tough 
and  hearty  —  to  be  your  guest  and  guide  at  Leaming- 
ton, command  him  in  any  way  you  please,  and  he  is 
wholly  yours.  I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  the  major,  wag- 
ging his  double  chin  with  a  jocose  air,  "  what  it  is  you 
people  see  in  Joe  to  make  you  hold  him  in  such  great 
request,  all  of  you  ;  but  this  I  know,  sir,  that  if  he 
wasn't  pretty  tough,  and  obstinate  in  his  refusals,  you'd 
kill  him  among  you  with  your  invitations  and  so  forth, 
in  double  quick  time." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  few  words,  expressed  his  sense  of 
the  preference  he  received  ovel*  those  other  distinguished 
members  of  society  who  were  clamoring  for  the  posses- 
sion of  Major  Bagstock.  But  the  major  cut  him  short 
by  giving  him  to  understand  that  he  followed  his  own 
inclinations,  and  that  they  had  risen  up  in  a  body  and 
said  with  one  accord,  "  J.  B.,  Dombey  is  the  man  for 
you  to  choose  as  a  friend." 

The  major  being  by  this  time  in  a  state  of  repletion, 
with  essence  of  savory  pie  oozing  out  at  the  corners  of 
his  eyes,  and  devilled  grill  and  kidneys  tightening  his 
cravat :  and  the  time  moreover  approaching  for  the  de- 
parture of  the  railway  train  to  Birmingham,  by  which 
they  were  to  leave  town  :  the  native  got  him  into  his 
great-coat  with  immense  difficulty,  and  buttoned  him  up 


86  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

>  until  his  face  looked  staring  and  gasping,  over  the  top 
of  that  garment,  as  if  he  were  m  a  barrel.  The  native 
then  handed  him  separately,  and  with  a  decent  interval 
between  each  supply,  his  wash-leather  gloves,  his  thick 
stick,  and  his  hat ;  which  latter  article  the  major  wore 
with  a  rakish  air,  on  one  side  of  his  head,  by  way  of 
toning  down  his  remarkable  visage.  The  native  had 
previously  packed,  in  all  possible  and  impossible  parts 
of  Mr.  Dombey's  chariot,  which  was  in  waiting,  an  un- 
usual quantity  of  carpet-bags  and  small  portmanteaus, 
no  less  apoplectic  in  appearance  than  the  major  himself: 
and  having  filled  his  own  pockets  with  Seltzer  water, 
East  India  sherry,  sandwiches,  shawls,  telescopes,  maps, 
and  newspapers,  any  or  all  of  which  light  baggage  the 
major  might  require  at  any  instant  of  the  journey,  he 
announced  that  everything  was  ready.  To  complete  the 
equipment  of  this  unfortunate  foreigner  (currently  be- 
lieved to  be  a  prince  in  his  own  country),  when  he  took 
his  seat  in  the  rumble  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Towlinson,  a 
pile  of  the  major's  cloaks  and  great-coats  was  hurled 
upon  him  by  the  landlord,  who  aimed  at  him  from  the 
pavement  with  those  great  missiles  like  a  Titan,  and  so 
covered  him  up,  that  he  proceeded  in  a  living  tomb  to 
the  railroad  station. 

But  before  the  carriage  moved  away,  and  while  the 
native  was  in  the  act  of  sepulture,  Miss  Tox  appearing 
at  her  window,  waved  a  lily-white  handkerchief.  Mr. 
Dorabey  received  this  parting  salutation  very  coldly  — 
very  coldly  even  for  him  — and  honoring  her  with  the 
slightest  possible  inclination  of  his  head,  leaned  back  in 
the  carriage  with  a  very  discontented  look.  His  marked 
behavior  seemed  to  afford  the  major  (who  was  all  polite- 
ness in  his  recognition  of  Miss  Tox)  unbounded  satis- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  87 

teclion  ;  and  he  sat  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  leeiing, 
and  choking,  like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles. 

During  the  bustle  of  preparation  at  the  railway,  Mr. 
Dombey  and  the  major  walked  up  and  down  the  plat* 
form  side  by  side  ;  the  former  taciturn  and  gloomy,  and 
the  latter  entertaining  him,  or  entertaining  himself,  with 
a  variety  of  anecdotes  and  reminiscences,  in  most  of 
which  Joe  Bagstock  was  the  principal  performer. 
Neither  of  the  two  observed  that  in  the  course  of 
these  walks,  they  attracted  the  attention  of  a  working- 
man  who  was  standing  near  the  engine,  and  who  touched 
his  hat  every  time  they  passed  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  ha- 
bitually looked  over  the  vulgar  herd,  not  at  them ;  and 
the  major  was  looking,  at  the  time,  into  the  core  of  one 
of  his  stories.  At  length,  however,  this  man  stepped 
before  them  as  they  turned  round,  and  pulling  hia 
hat  off,  and  keeping  it  off,  ducked  his  head  to  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "  but  I  hope 
you're  a-doin'  pretty  well,  sir." 

He  was  dressed  in  a  canvas  suit  abundantly  besmeared 
with  coal-dust  and  oil,  and  had  cinders  in  his  whiskers, 
and  a  smell  of  half-slaked  ashes  all  over  him.  He  was 
not  a  bad-looking  fellow,  nor  even  what  could  be  fairly 
i»lled  a  dirty-looking  fellow,  in  spite  of  this;  and,  in 
short,  he  was  Mr.  Toodle,  professionally  clothed. 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  stokin'  of  you  down,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Toodle.  "  Beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  hope  yon 
find  yourself  a-coming  round  !  " 

Mr,  Dombey  looked  at  him,  in  return  for  his  tone  of 
interest,  as  if  a  man  like  that  would  make  his  very  eye- 
sight dirty. 

"  'Scuse  the  liberty,  sir,'*  said  Toodle,  seeing  he  wa« 


88  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

not  clearly  remembered,  "  but  my  wife  Poily,  as  waa 
called  Richards  in  your  family"  — 

A  change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face,  which  seemed  to  ex- 
press recollection  of  him,  and  so  it  did,  but  it  expressed 
in  a  much  stronger  degree  an  angry  sense  of  humilis- 
tioii,  stopped  Mr.  Toodle  short. 

"  Your  wife  wants  money,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Dom* 
l)ey,  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  speaking  (but 
that  he  always  did)  haughtily. 

"  No  thank'ee,  sir,"  returned  Toodle,  "  I  can't  say  ahe 
does.     /  don't." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  stopped  short  now  in  his  turn  :  and 
awkwardly :  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  No  sir,"  said  Toodle,  tui'ning  his  oilskin  cap  round 
and  round ;  "  we're  a-doin'  pretty  well  sir ;  we  haven't 
no  cause  to  complain  in  the  worldly  way,  sir.  We've 
had  four  more  since  then,  sir,  but  we  rubs  on." 

Mr.  Dombey  would  have  rubbed  on  to  his  own  car- 
riage, though  in  so  doing  he  had  rubbed  the  stoker  un- 
derneath the  wheels ;  but  his  attention  was  arrested  by 
something  in  connection  with  the  cap  still  going  slowly 
round  and  round  in  the  man's  hand. 

"  We  lost  one  babby,"  observed  Toodle,  "  there's  no 
denyin'." 

"  Lately,"  added  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  the  cap. 

"  No,  sir,  up'ard  of  three  years  ago,  but  all  the  rest  is 
hearty.  And  in  the  matter  o'  readin'  sir,"  said  Toodle, 
ducking  again,  as  if  to  remind  Mr.  Dombey  of  what  had 
passed  betwsen  them  on  that  subject  long  ago,  "  them 
boys  o'  mine,  they  learned  me,  among  'em,  arter  alL 
They've  made  a  wery  tolerable  scholar  of  me,  sir 
^em  boys." 

*'  Come,  major  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  89 

"■Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  resumed  Toodle,  taking  a 
step  before  them,  and  deferentially  stopping  them  again, 
Btill  cap  in  hand :  "  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  you  with 
Buch  a  pint  except  as  a  way  of  gettin'  in  the  name  of 
my  son  Biler  —  christened  Robin  —  him  as  you  was  &) 
good  as  to  make  a  Charitable  Grinder  on." 

"  Well,  man,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  severest  man- 
ner.    "  What  about  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  returned  Toodle,  shaking  his  head  with  a 
face  of  great  anxiety  and  distress.  "  I'm  forced  to  9ay, 
sir,  that  he's  gone  wrong." 

"  He  has  gone  wrong,  has  he  ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  a  hard  kind  of  satisfaction. 

''  He  has  fell  into  bad  company,  you  see,  gentlemen," 
pursued  the  father,  looking  wistfully  at  both,  and  evi- 
dently taking  the  major  into  the  conversation  with  the 
hope  of  having  his  sympathy.  "  He  has  got  into  bad 
wa}s.  God  send  he  may  come  to  again,  genelmen,  but 
he's  on  the  wrong  track  now  !  You  could  hardly  be  off 
hearing  of  it  somehow,  sir,"  said  Toodle,  again  address- 
ing Mr.  Dombey  individually;  "and  it's  better  I  should 
out  and  say  my  boy's  gone  rather  wrong.  Polly's  dread- 
ful down  about  it,  gentelmen,"  said  Toodle  with  the 
same  dejected  lock,  and  another  appeal  to  the  major. 

'•  A  son  of  this  man's  whom  I  caused  to  be  educated, 
major,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  giving  him  his  arm.  "  The 
usual  return  !  " 

"  Take  adt ice  from  plain  old  Joe,  and  never  educate 
tliai  sort  of  people,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "  Damme^ 
sir,  it  never  does !     It  always  fails  !  " 

The  simple  father  was  beginning  to  submit  that  he 
hoped  his  son,  the  quondam  Grinder,  huffed  and  cuffed, 
ind  flogged  and  badged,  and  ta  ight,  as  parrots  are,  by  a 


90  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

brute  jobbed  into  his  place  of  schoolraaster  with  as  much 
fitness  for  it  as  a  hound,  might  not  have  been  educated 
on  quite  a  right  plan  in  some  undiscovered  respect,  when 
Mr.  Dorabey  angrily  repeating  "  The  usual  return  ! "  led 
the  major  away.  And  the  major  being  heavy  to  hoist 
ill  to  Mr.  Dombey's  carriage,  elevated  in  mid-air,  and 
having  to  stop  and  swear  that  he  would  flay  the  native 
alive,  and  break  every  bone  in  his  skin,  and  visit  other 
physical  torments  upon  him,  every  time  he  couldn't  get 
his  foot  on  the  step,  and  fell  back  on  that  dark  exile,  had 
barely  time  before  they  started  to  repeat  hoarsely  that  it 
would  never  do :  that  it  always  failed :  and  that  if  he 
were  to  educate  "  his  own  vagabond,"  he  would  certainly 
lie  hanged. 

Mr.  Dombey  assented  bitterly ;  but  there  was  some- 
thing more  in  his  bitterness,  and  in  his  moody  way  of 
falling  back  in  the  carriage,  and  looking  with  knitted 
brows  at  the  changing  objects  without,  than  the  failure 
of  that  noble  educational  system  administered  by  the 
Grinders'  Company.  He  had  seen  upon  the  man's 
rough  cap  a  piece  of  new  crape,  and  he  had  assured 
iiimself,  from  his  manner  and  his  answers,  that  he  wore 
it  for  his  son. 

So  !  from  high  to  low,  at  home  or  abroad,  from  Flor- 
ence in  his  great  house  to  the  coarse  churl  who  was  feed- 
ing the  fire  then  smoking  before  them,  every  one  set  up 
some  claim  or  other  to  a  share  in  his  dead  boy,  and  was 
a  bidder  against  him  !  Could  he  ever  forget  how  that 
woman  had  wept  over  his  pillow,  and  called  him  her  own" 
child !  or  how  he,  waking  from  his  sleep,  had  asked  for 
her,  and  had  raised  himself  in  his  bed  and  brightened 
when  she  came  in  ' 

To  think  of  this  presumptuous  raker  among  coals  and 


DOMBET  AKD  SON.  91 

^hes  going  on  before  there,  with  his  sign  of  mourning! 
To  think  that  he  dared  to  enter,  even  by  a  common 
show  like  that,  into  the  trial  and  disappointment  of  a 
proud  gentleman's  secret  heart !  To  think  that  this  lost 
child,  who  was  to  have  divided  with  him  his  riches,  and 
liis  projects,  and  his  power,  and  allied  with  whom  he  was 
to  have  shut  out  all  the  world  as  with  a  double  door  of 
gold,  should  have  let  in  such  a  herd  to  insult  him  with 
their  knowledge  of  his  defeated  hopes,  and  their  boasts 
of  claiming  community  of  feeling  with  himself,  so  far 
removed  :  if  not  of  having  crept  into  the  place  wherein 
he  would  have  lorded  it  alone  ! 

He  found  no  pleasure  or  relief  in  the  journey.  Tor- 
tured by  these  thoughts,  he  carried  monotony  with  him, 
through  the  rushing  landscape,  and  hurried  headlong,  not 
through  a  rich  and  varied  country,  but  a  wilderness  of 
blighted  plans  and  gnawing  jealousies.  The  very  speed 
at  which  the  train  was  whirled  along  mocked  the  swift 
course  of  th^  young  life  that  had  been  borne  away  so 
steadily  and  so  inexorably  to  its  fore-doomed  end.  The 
power  that  forced  itself  upon  its  iron  way  —  its  own  — 
defiant  of  all  paths  and  roads,  piercing  through  the  heart 
of  every  obstacle,  and  dragging  living  creatures  of  all 
classes,  ages,  and  degrees  behind  it,  was  a  type  of  the 
triumphant  monster  Death ! 

Away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  frono 
the  town,  burrowing  among  the  dwellings  of  men  and 
making  the  streets  hum,  flashing  out  into  the  meadows 
for  a  moment,  mining  in  through  the  damp  earth,  boom- 
ing on  in  darkness  and  heavy  air,  bursting  out  again  into 
the  sunny  day  so  bright  and  wide  ;  away,  with  a  shriek, 
and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  through  the  fields,  through  the 
woods,  through  the  corn,  thi-ough  tlie  hay,  through  tb» 


92  DOMBEY  AND  SOK. 

chalk,  tbrougb  the  mould,  through  the  clay,  tlirough  the 
rock,  among  objects  close  at  hand  and  almost  in  the 
grasp,  ever  flying  from  the  travi'ller,  and  a  deceitful 
distance  ever  moving  slowly  within  him :  like  as  in  the 
track  of  the  remorseless  monster,  Death ! 

Through  the  hollow,  on  the  height,  by  the  heath,  by 
tliC  orchard,  by  the  park,  by  the  garden,  over  the  canal, 
across  the  river,  where  the  sheep  are  feeding,  where  the 
mill  is  going,  where  the  barge  is  floating,  where  the  dead 
are  lying,  where  the  factory  is  smoking,  where  the  stream 
is  running,  where  the  village  clusters,  where  the  gi'eat 
cathedral  rises,  where  the  bleak  moor  lies,  and  the  wild 
breeze  smooths  or  ruflles  it  at  its  inconstant  will ;  away, 
with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  and  no  trace  to 
leave  behind  but  dust  and  vapor :  like  as  in  the  track  of 
the  remorseless  monster,  Death  ! 

Breasting  the  wind  and  light,  the  shower  and  sun- 
shine, away,  and  still  away,  it  rolls  and  roars,  fierce  and 
rapid,  smooth  and  certain,  and  great  work^and  massive 
bridges  crossing  up  above,  fall  like  a  beam  of  shadow  an 
inch  broad,  upon  the  eye,  and  then  are  lost.  Away,  and 
still  away,  onward  and  onward  ever :  glimpses  of  cot- 
tage-homes, of  houses,  mansions,  rich  estates,  of  hus- 
bandry and  handicraft,  of  people,  of  old  roads  and  paths 
that  look  deserte],  small,  and  insignificant  as  they  are 
left  behind  ;  and  so  they  do,  and  what  else  is  there  but 
such  glimpses,  in  the  track  of  the  indomitable  monster 
Death! 

Away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  plunging 
flown  into  the  earth  again,  and  working  on  in  such  a 
storm  of  energy  and  perseverance,  that  amidst  the  dark 
ness  and  whirlwind  the  motion  seems  reversed,  and  to 
tend  furiously  backward,  until  a  ray  of  liiiht  upon  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  98 

wet  wall  shows  its  surface  flying  past  like  a  fiercw 
stream.  Away  once  more  into  the  day,  and  through  the 
day,  with  a  shrill  yell  of  exultation,  roaring,  rattling, 
tearing  on,  spuming  everything  with  its  dark  breath, 
sometimes  pausing  for  a  minute  where  a  crowd  of  faces 
are,  that  in  a  minute  more  are  not:  sometimes  lapping 
watei"  greedily,  and  before  the  spout  at  which  it  drinks 
has  ceased  to  drip  upon  the  ground,  shrieking,  roaring, 
rattling  through  the  purple  distance  ! 

Louder  and  louder  yet,  it  shrieks  and  cries  as  it  comes 
tearing  on  resistless  to  the  goal ;  and  now  its  way,  still 
like  the  way  of  Death,  is  strewn  with  ashes  thickly. 
"Everything  around  is  blackened.  There  are  dark  pools 
of  water,  muddy  lanes,  and  miserable  habitations  far 
below.  There  are  jagged  walls  and  falling  houses  close 
at  hand,  and  through  the  battered  roofs  and  broken  win- 
dows, wretched  rooms  are  seen,  where  want  and  fever 
hide  themselves  in  many  wretched  shapes,  while  smoke 
and  crowded  gables,  and  distorted  chimneys,  and  defor- 
mity of  brick  and  mortar  penning  up  deformity  of  mind 
and  body,  choke  the  murky  distance.  As  Mr.  Dombey 
looks  out  of  his  carriage-window,  it  is  never  in  his 
thoughts  that  the  monster  who  has  brought  him  there 
has  let  the  light  of  day  in  on  these  things :  not  mado 
or  caused  them.  It  was  the  journey's  fitting  end,  and 
might  have  been  the  end  of  everything ;  it  was  so  ruin- 
ous and  dreary. 

So,  pursuing  the  one  course  of  thought,  he  had  the 
one  relentless  monster  still  before  him.  All  things 
looked  black,  and  cold,  and  deadly  upon  him,  and  he  on 
ihem.  He  found  a  likeness  to  his  misfortune  every- 
where. There  was  a  remorseless  tiiumph  going  on 
about  him,  and  it  galled  and  stung  him  in  his  pride  and 


94  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

jealousy,  whatever  form  it  took:  though  most  of  aU 
when  it  divided  with  him  the  love  and  memory  of  his 
lost  boy. 

There  was  a  face  —  he  had  looked  upon  it,  on  the 
previous  night,  and  it  on  him  with  eyes  that  read  his 
Boul,  though  they  were  dim  with  tears,  and  hidden  soon 
behind  two  quivering  hands  —  that  often  had  attended 
him  in  fancy  —  on  this  ride.  He  had  seen  it,  with 
the  expression  of  last  night,  timidly  pleading  to  him.  It 
was  not  reproachful,  but  there  was  something  of  doubt, 
almost  of  hopeful  incredulity  in  it,  which,  as  he  once 
more  saw  that  fade  away  into  a  desolate  certainty  of  his 
dislike,  was  like  reproach.  It  was  a  trouble  to  him  \/T 
think  of  this  face  of  Florence. 

Because  he  felt  any  new  compunction  towards  it  ? 
No.  Because  the  feeling  it  awakened  in  him  —  of  which 
he  had  had  some  old  foreshadowing  in  older  times  — 
was  full-formed  now,  and  spoke  out  pl^nly,  moving 
him  too  much,  and  threatening  to  grow  too  strong  for 
his  composure.  Because  the  face  was  abroad,  in  the 
expression  of  defeat  and  persecution  that  seemed  to 
encircle  him  like  the  air.  Because  it  barbed  the  aiTow 
of  that  cruel  and  remorseless  enemy  on  which  his 
thoughts  so  ran,  and  put  into  its  grasp  a  double-handed 
sword.  Because  he  knew  full  well,  in  his  own  breast, 
as  he  stood  there,  tinging  the  scene  of  transition  before 
him  with  the  morbid  colors  of  his  own  mind,  and  making 
it  a  ruin  and  a  picture  of  decay,  instead  of  hopeful 
change,  and  promise  of  better  things,  that  life  had  quite  " 
ai.  much  to  do  with  his  complainings  as  death.  One  child 
was  gone,  and  one  child  left.  Why  was  the  object  oi 
his  hope  removed  instead  of  her  ? 

The  sweet,  calm,  gentle  presence  in  his  fancy,  moved 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  96 

him  to  no  reflection  but  that.  She  had  been  nnwelcome 
to  him  from  the  first ;  she  was  an  aggravation  of  his  bit« 
lerness  now.  If  his  son  had  been  his  only  child,  and  the 
pame  blow  had  fallen  on  him,  it  would  have  been  heavy 
to  bear ;  but  infinitely  lighter  than  now,  when  it  might 
have  fallen  on  her  (whom  he  could  have  lost,  or  he  be- 
lieved it,  without  a  pang),  and  had  not.  Her  loving  and 
innocent  face  rising  before  him,  had  no  softening  or  wirt- 
ning  influence.  He  rejected  the  angel,  and  took  up  with 
the  tormenting  spirit  crouching  in  his  bosom.  Her  pa- 
tience, goodness,  youth,  devotion,  love,  were  as  so  many 
atoms  in  the  ashes  upon  which  he  set  his  heel.  He  saw 
her  image  in  the  blight  and  blackness  all  around  him,  not 
irradiating  but  deepening  the  gloom.  More  than  once 
upon  this  journey,  and  now  again  as  he  stood  pondering 
at  this  journey's  end,  tracing  figures  in  the  dust  with  his 
stick,  the  thought  came  into  his  mind,  what  was  there  he 
could  interpose  between  himself  and  it  ? 

The  major,  who  had  been  blowing  and  panting  all  the 
way  down,  like  another  engine,  and  whose  eye  had  often 
wandered  from  his  newspaper  to  leer  at  the  prospect,  as 
if  there  were  a  great  procession  of  discomfited  Miss 
Toxes  pouring  out  in  the  smoke  of  the  train,  and  flying 
away  over  the  fields  to  hide  themselves  in  any  place  of 
refuge,  aroused  his  friend  by  informing  him  that  the 
pcet-horses  were  harnessed  and  the  carriage  ready. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  rapping  him  on  the  arm 
with  his  cane,  "  don't  be  thoughtful.  It's  a  bad  habit. 
Old  Joe,  sir,  wouldn't  be  as  tough  as  you  see  him,  if  he 
had  ever  encouraged  it.  You  are  too  great  a  man,  Dom- 
bey, to  be  thoughtful.  In  your  position,  sir,  you're  far 
above  that  kind  of  thing." 

The  major,  even  in  his  friendly  remonstrances,  thua 


96  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

consulting  the  dignity  and  honor  of  Mr.  Dombey,  and 
showing  a  lively  sense  of  their  importance,  Mr.  Dombey 
felt  more  than  ever  disposed  to  defer  to  a  gentleman  pos- 
sessing so  much  good  sense  and  such  a  well-regulated 
mind ;  accordingly  he  made  an  effort  to  listen  to  the 
major's  stories,  as  they  trotted  along  the  turn  pike- road; 
and  the  major,  finding  both  the  pace  and  the  road  a  great 
deal  better  adapted  to  his  conversational  powers  than  the 
mode  of  travelling  they  had  just  relinquished,  came  out 
for  his  entertainment. 

In  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversation,  only  inter* 
rupted  by  his  usual  plethoric  symptoms,  and  by  intervals 
of  lunch,  and  from  time  to  time  by  some  violent  assault 
upon  tlie  native,  who  wore  a  pair  of  eax*-rings  in  his  dark- 
brown  ears,  and  on  whom  his  European  clothes  sat  with 
an  outlandish  impossibility  of  adjustment  —  being,  of 
their  own  accord,  and  without  any  reference  to  the  tai- 
lor's art,  long  where  they  ought  to  be  short,  short  where 
they  ought  to  be  long,  tight  where  they  ought  to  be 
loose,  and  loose  whepe  they  ought  to  be  tight  —  and  to 
which  he  imparted  a  new  grace,  whenever  the  major 
attacked  him,  by  shrinking  into  them  like  a  shriveliea 
nut,  or  a  cold  monkey  —  in  this  flow  of  spirits  and  con- 
versation, the  major  continued  all  day :  so  that  when 
evening  came  on,  and  found  them  trotting  through  the 
green  and  leafy  road  near  Leamington,  the  major's  voice, 
what  with  talking  and  eating  and  chuckling  and  ciiokiiig, 
appeared  to  be  in  the  box  under,  the  rumble,  or  in  some 
neighboring  haystack.  Nor  did  the  major  improve  it  at 
the  Royal  Hotel,  where  rooms  and  dinner  had  been  or- 
dered, and  where  he  so  oppressed  his  organs  of  speech 
by  eating  and  drinking,  that  when  he  retired  to  bed  he 
kad  no  voice  at  all,  except  to  cough  with,  and  could  only 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  97 

iiake  himself  intelligible  to  the  dark  servant  by  gasping 
at  him. 

He  not  only  rose  next  morning,  however,  like  a  giant 
refreshed,  but  conducted  himself,  at  breakfast,  like  a  giant 
refreshing.  At  this  meal  they  arranged  their  daily 
linbits.  The  major  was  to  take  the  responsibihty  of 
ordering  everything  to  eat  and  drink  ;  and  they  were  lo 
have  a  late  breakfast  together  every  morning,  and  a  late 
dinner  together  every  day.  Mr.  Dombey  would  prefer 
remaining  in  his  own  room,  or  walking  in  the  country  by 
himself,  on  that  first  day  of  their  sojourn  at  Leamington; 
but  next  morning  he  would  be  happy  to  accompany  the 
major  to  the  Pump-room,  and  about  the  town.  So  they 
parted  until  dinner-time.  Mr.  Dombey  retired  to  nurse 
his  wholesome  thoughts  in  his  own  way.  The  major, 
attended  by  the  native  carrying  a  camp-stool,  a  great- 
coat, and  an  umbrella,  swaggered  up  and  down  through 
all  the  public  places  ;  looking  into  subscription  books  to 
Qnd  out  who  was  there,  looking  up  old  ladies  by  whom 
lie  was  much  admired,  reporting  J.  B.  tougher  than  ever, 
and  puffing  his  rich  friend  Dombey  wherever  he  went. 
There  never  was  a  man  who  stood  by  a  friend  more 
i?tanchly  than  the  major,  when  in  puffing  him,  he  puffed 
himself. 

It  was  surprising  how  much  new  conversation  the 
major  had  to  let  off  at  dinner-time,  and  what  occasion 
he  gave  Mr.  Dombey  to  admire  his  social  qualities.  At 
breakfast  next  morning,  he  knew  the  contents  of  the 
latest  newspapers  received  ;  and  mentioned  several  sub- 
jects in  connection  with  them,  on  which  his  opinion  had 
recently  been  sought  by  persons  of  such  power  and 
might,  that  they  were  only  to  be  obscurely  hinted  at. 
iMlr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  so  long  shut  up  within  him 

VOL.   It.  7 


98  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Belf,  and  who  had  rarely,  at  any  time,  overstepped  the 
enchanted  cu-cle  within  which  the  operations  of  Dombey 
and  Son  were  conducted,  began  to  think  this  an  improve- 
ment on  his  solitary  life  ;  and  in  place  of  excusing  him- 
self for  another  day,  as  he  had  thought  of  doing  when 
alone,  walked  out  with  the  major  arm-infirm. 


DOMBEY  AXD  SON.  99 


CHAPTER   XXI. 


NEW    FACES. 


The  maj^yr,  more  blue-faced  and  staring  —  more  over- 
ripe, as  it  were,  than  ever  —  and  giving  vent,  every  now 
and  then,  to  one  of  the  horse's  coughs,  not  so  much  of 
necessity  as  in  a  spontaneous  explosion  of  importance, 
walked  arra-in-arra  with  Mr.  Dombey  up  the  sunny  side 
of  the  way,  with  his  cheeks  swelling  over  his  tight  stock, 
his  legs  majestically  wide  apart,  and  his  great  head  wag- 
ging from  side  to  side,  as  if  he  were  remonstraliiig  within 
himself  for  being  such  a  cajjtivating  object.  They  had 
not  walked  many  yards  before  the  major  encountered 
somebody  he  knew,  nor  many  yards  fartiier  beibre  the 
major  encountered  somebody  else  he  knew,  l»ut  lie  merely 
shook  his  fingers  at  them  as  he  passed,  and  led  Mr.  Dom- 
bey on  :  pointing  out  the  localities  as  they  went,  and 
enlivening  the  walk  with  any  current  scandal  suggested 
by  them. 

In  this  manner  the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey  were 
nralking  arm-in-arm,  much  to  their  own  sa.isfaction, 
vvben  they  beheld  advancing  towards  them  a  wheeled 
,;hair,  in  which  a  lady  was  seated,  indolently  steering  her 
ttArriage  by  a  kmd  of  rudder  in  front,  while  it  was  pro- 
pelled by  some  unseen  power  in  the  rear.  Although  the 
lady  was  not  young,  she  was  very  blooming  in  the  face 
—  quite   '-OS}    -and   her  dress  and  attitude  weie  per- 


100  DOaiBEY  AND  SOlS. 

fectly  juvenile.  Walking  by  the  side  of  the  ciiair,  and 
carrying  her  gossamer  parasol  with  a  proud  and  weary 
air,  as  if  so  great  an  effort  must  be  soon  abandoned,  and 
the  parasol  dropped,  sauntered  a  much  younger  lady, 
very  handsome,  very  haughty,  very  wilful,  who  tossdd 
her  head  and  drooped  her  eyelids,  as  though,  if  theit' 
were  anything  in  all  the  world  worth  looking  into,  save 
a  mirror,  it  certainly  was  not  the  eartli  or  sky. 

"  Why,  what  the  devil  have  we  here,  sir!"  cried  the 
major,  stopping  as  this  little  cavalcade  drew  near. 

"  My  dearest  Edith  !  "  drawled  the  lady  in  the  chair 
"  Mixjov  Bagstock  !  " 

The  major  no  sooner  heard  the  voice,  than  he  relin- 
quished Mr.  Dombey's  arm,  darted  forward,  took  the 
hand  of  the  lady  in  the  chair  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
With  no  less  gallantry  the  major  folded  both  his  gloves 
upon  his  heart  and  bowed  low  to  the  other  lady.  And 
now,  the  chair  having  stopped,  the  motive  power  becjime 
visible  in  the  shape  of  a  flushed  page  pushing  behind, 
who  seemed  to  have  in  part  outgrown  and  in  part  out- 
pushed  his  strength,  for  when  he  stood  upright  he  was 
tall,  and  wan,  and  thin,  and  his  plight  appeared  the 
more  forlorn  from  his  having  injured  the  shape  of  his 
hat,  by  butting  at  the  carriage  with  his  head  to  urge  il 
forward,  as  is  sometimes  done  by  elephants  in  Oriental 
countries. 

"  Joe  Bagstock,"  said  the  major  to  both  ladies,  "  is  a 
proud  and  happy  man  for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"  You  false  creature,"  said  the  old  lady  in  the  chair, 
insij)idly.  "  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  I  can't  beai 
you." 

"  Then  suffer  old  Joe  to  present  a  friend,  ma'am,"  said 
die  major,  promptly,  "as  a  reason  lor  being  tolerated. 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  101 

Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Skewton."  The  lady  in  the  chair 
was  gracious.  "  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Granger."  The 
lady  with  the  parasol  was  faintly  conscious  of"  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  taking  off  his  hat,  and  bowing  low.  "  I  am  de- 
lighted, sir,"  said  the  major,  "to  have  this  opportunity.'* 

The  major  seemed  in  earnest,  for  he  looked  at  all  the 
three  and  leered  in  his  ugliest  manner. 

"  Mrs.  Skewton,  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  makes 
havoc  in  the  heart  of  old  Josh." 

Mr.  Dombey  signified  that  he  didn't  wonder  at  it. 

"  You  perfidious  goblin,"  said  the  lady  in  the  chair, 
"  have  done !  How  long  have  you  been  here,  bad 
man  ?  " 

"  One  day,"  replied  the  major. 

"And  can  you  be  a  day,  or  even  a  minute,"  returned 
the  lady,  slightly  settling  her  false  curls  and  false  eye- 
brows with  her  fan,  and  showing  her  false  teeth,  set  off 
by  her  false  complexion,  "  in  the  garden  of  what's-its- 
name  "  — 

"  Eden,  I  suppose,  mama,"  interrupted  the  younger 
lady,  scornfully. 

"  My  dear  Edith,"  said  the  other,  "  I  cannot  help  it 
I  never  can  remember  those  frightful  names  —  without 
having  your  whole  soul  and  being  inspired  by  the  sight 
of  nature  ;  by  the  perfume,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  rustling 
a  handkerchief  that  was  faint  and  sickly  with  essences, 
^  of  her  artless  breath,  you  creature  !  " 

The  discrepancy  between  Mrs.  Skewton's  fresh  (nlhu- 
5iiasm  of  words,  and  forlornly  faded  manner,  was  hardly 
'ess  observable  than  that  between  her  age,  which  was 
about  seventy,  and  her  dress,  which  would  have  been 
youthful  for  twenty-seven.  Her  attitude  in  the  wheeled 
3hair  (which  she  never  varied)  was  one  in  which  she 


102  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

had  been  laken  in  a  barouche,  some  fifty  years  before, 
by  a  then  fashionable  artist,  who  had  appended  to  hia 
published  sketch  the  name  of  Cleopatra :  in  consequence 
of  a  discovery  made  by  the  critics  of  the  time,  that  it 
bore  an  exact  resemblance  to  that  princess  as  she  re« 
clined  on  board  her  galley.  Mrs.  Skevvton  was  a  beauty 
then,  and  bucks  threw  wine-glasses  over  their  heads  by 
dozens  in  her  honor.  The  beauty  and  the  barouche  had 
both  passed  away,  but  she  still  preserved  the  attitude, 
and  for  this  reason  expressly,  maintained  the  wheeled 
chair  and  the  butting  page  :  there  being  nothing  what- 
ever, except  the  attitude,  to  prevent  her  from  walking. 

"  Mr.  Dombey  is  devoted  to  nature,  I  trust  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  settling  her  diamond  brooch.  And  by 
the  way,  she  chiefly  lived  upon  the  reputation  of  some 
diamonds,  and  her  family  connections. 

"My  friend  Dombey,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major, 
"  may  be  devoted  to  her  in  secret,  but  a  man  who  is  par- 
amount in  the  greatest  city  in  the  universe  "  — 

"  No  one  can  be  a  stranger,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  to 
Mr.  Dorabey's  immense  influence." 

As  Mr.  Dombey  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a 
bend  of  his  head,  the  younger  lady  glancing  at  him,  met 
his  eyes 

"  You  reside  here,  madam  ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  ad- 
dressing her. 

"  No,  we  have  been  to  a  great  many  places.    To  Ilai^ 
rogate,   and   Scarborough,  and    into    Devonshire.      We-_ 
have  been  visiting,  and  resting  here  and  there.     Mama 
likes  change." 

"  Edith  of  course  does  not,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  with 
a  ghastly  archness. 

"  I  have  not  found  that  there  is  any  change  in  aucb 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  108 

places,"  was  the  answer,  delivered  with  supreme  indiffer' 
ence. 

"  They  libel  me.  There  is  only  one  change,  Mr. 
Dombcy,"  observed  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  mincing  sigh, 
"  for  which  I  really  care,  and  that  I  fear  I  shall  never 
be  permitted  to  enjoy.  People  cannot  spare  one.  But 
seclusion  and  contemplation  are  my  what's-his-name  " — 

**  If  you  mean  Paradise,  mama,  you  had  better  say  so, 
to  render  yourself  intelligible,"  said  the  younger  lady. 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  returned  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  you 
know  that  I  am  wholly  dependent  upon  you  for  those 
odious  names.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Dombey,  Nature  in- 
tended me  for  an  Arcadian.  I  am  thrown  away  in 
society.  Cows  are  my  passion.  What  I  have  ever 
sighed  for,  has  been  to  retreat  to  a  Swiss  farm,  and  live 
entirely  surrounded  by  cows  —  and  china." 

This  curious  association  of  objects,  suggesting  a  re- 
membrance of  the  celebrated  bull  who  got  by  mistake 
into  a  crockery  shop,  was  received  with  perfect  gravity 
by  Mr.  Dombey,  who  intimated  his  opinion  that  Nature 
was,  no  doubt,  a  very  respectable  institution. 

"What  I  want,"  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  pinching  her 
shrivelled  throat,  "  is  heart."  It  was  fi-ightfully  true  in 
one  sense,  if  not  in  that  in  which  she  used  the  phrasft 
*  What  I  want  is  frankness,  confidence,  less  convention- 
nlity,  and  freer  play  of  soul.  We  are  so  dreadfully 
artificial." 

We  were,  indeed. 

"  In  short,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  I  want  nature  every* 
where.     It  wot 'Id  be  so  extremely  charming." 

"  Nature  is  mviting  us  away  now,  mama,  if  you  are 
ready,"  said  the  younger  lady,  curling  her  handsome  lip. 
A-t  this  hint,  the  wan  page,  who  had  been  surveying  the 


104  DOMBEY  AND  SOJSf. 

party  over  the  top  of  the  chair,  vanished  behind  it,  as  if 
the  ground  had  swallowed  him  up. 

"  Stop  a  momeirt,  Withers ! "  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  aa 
the  chair  began  to  move ;  calling  to  the  page  with  all  the 
languid  dignity  with  which  she  had  called  in  days  of  yore 
to  a  coachman  with  a  wig,  cauliflower  nosegay,  and  silk 
Btockings.     "  Where  are  you  staying,  abomination  ?  " 

The  major  was  staying  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  with  hiji 
friend  Dombey. 

"  You  may  come  and  see  us  any  evening  when  you 
are  good,"  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton.  "  If  Mr.  Dombey  will 
honor  us,  we  shall  be  happy.     Withers,  go  on !  *' 

The  major  again  pressed  to  his  blue  lips  the  tips  of  the 
fingers  that  were  disposed  on  the  ledge  of  the  wheeled 
chair  with  careful  carelessness ;  after  the  Cleopatra 
model :  and  Mr.  Dombey  bowed.  The  elder  lady  hon- 
ored them  botli  with  a  very  gracious  smile  and  a  girlish 
wave  of  her  hand ;  the  younger  lady  with  the  very 
slightest  inclination  of  her  head  that  common  courtesy 
allowed. 

The  last  glimpse  of  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  mother, 
with  that  patched  color  on  it  which  the  sun  made  infin- 
itely more  haggard  and  dismal  than  any  want  of  color 
could  have  been,  and  of  the  proud  beauty  of  the  daugh* 
ter  with  her  graceful  figure  and  erect  deportment,  engen- 
dered such  an  involuntary  disposition  on  the  part  of  both 
the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey  to  look  after  them,  that  they 
both  turned  at  the  same  moment.  The  page,  nearly  as 
much  aslant  as  his  own  shadow,  was  toiling  after  the 
chair,  up-hill,  like  a  slow  battering-ram :  the  top  of 
Cleopatra's  bonnet  was  fluttering  in  exactly  the  same 
eorner  to  the  inch  as  before ;  and  the  Beauty,  loitering 
by  herself  a  little  in  advance,  expressed  in  all  her  eie- 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  105 

gant  fonn,  from  head  to  foot,  the  same  supreme  disregard 
of  everjtliing  and  everybody. 

"  I  tell  you  wiuit,  ?ir,"  said  the  major,  as  they  resumed 
their  walk  again.  "  If  Joe  Bagstock  were  a  younger 
man,  there's  not  a  woman  in  the  world  whom  he'd  preftf 
tor  Mr;;.  Bag-tock  to  that  woman.  By  George,  sir  I* 
Buid  tiio  major,  '*  she's  superb  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  the  daughter  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Is  Joey  B.  a  turnip,  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  that 
he  should  mean  the  mother  1 " 

"  You  were  complimentary  to  the  mother,"  returned 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  An  ancient  flame,  sir,"  chuckled  Major  Bagstock. 
"  De-vilish  ancient.     I  humor  her." 

"  She  impresses  me  as  being  perfectly  genteel,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Genteel,  sir,"  said  the  major,  stopping  short,  and 
staring  in  his  companion's  face.  "  The  Honorable  Mrs. 
Skewton,  sir,  is  sister  to  the  late  Lord  Feenix,  and  aunt 
to  the  present  lord.  The  family  are  not  wealthy  — 
they're  poor,  indeed  —  and  she  lives  upon  a  small 
jointure  ;  but  if  you  come  to  blood,  sir !  "  The  major 
gave  a  flourish  with  his  stick  and  walked  on  again,  in 
despair  of  being  able  to  say  what  you  came  to,  if  you 
came  to  that. 

"  You  addressed  the  daughter,  I  observed,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  after  a  short  pause,  "  as  Mrs.  Granger  " 

"  Edith  Skewton,-  sir,"  returned  the  major,  stopping 
Bhort  again,  and  punching  a  mark  in  the  ground  with  his 
cane,  to  represent  her,  "  married  (at  eighteen)  Granger 
^f  Ours  ;  "  whom  the  major  indicated  by  another  punch. 
"  Granger,  sir,"  said  the  major,  tapping  the  last  ideal 
iportrait,  and  rolling  his  head  emphatically,  "  was  Colonel 


106  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  Ours;  R  devilish  handsome  fellow,  sir,  of  forty-one. 
He  died,  air,  in  the  second  year  of  his  marriage."  The 
major  ran  the  representative  of  the  deceased  Granger 
through  and  through  the  body  with  his  walking-stick,  and 
went  on  again,  carrying  his  stick  over  his  shoulder. 

"  How  long  is  this  ago  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dorabey,  making 
another  halt. 

"  Edith  Granger,  sir,"  replied  the  major,  shutting  one 
eye,  putting  his  head  on  one  side,  passing  his  cane  into 
his  left  hand,  and  smoothing  his  shirt-frill  with  his  right, 
"  is,  at  this  present  time,  not  quite  thirty.  And,  damme, 
sir,"  said  the  major,  shouldering  his  stick  once  more,  and 
walking  on  again,  "  she's  a  peerless  woman  !  " 

"  Was  there  any  family  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  pres- 
ently. 

"  Yes,  pir,"  said  the  major.     "  There  was  a  boy." 

Mr.  Dombey's  eyes  sought  the  ground,  and  a  shade 
came  over  his  face. 

"  Wlio  was  drowned,  sir,"  pursued  the  major,  "  when  a 
child  of  four  or  five  years  old." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  raising  his  head. 

"  By  the  upsetting  of  a  boat  in  which  his  nurse  had  no 
business  to  have  put  him,"  said  the  major.  "  Tliat's  his 
history.  Edith  Granger  is  Edith  Granger  still ;  but  if 
tough  old  Joey  1?.,  sir,  were  a  little  younger  and  a  little 
richer,  the  name  of  that  immortal  paragon  should  be 
Bagstock." 

The  major  heaved  his  shoulders,  and  his  cheeks,  and 
laughed  more  hke  an  overfed  Mephistopheles  than  ever, 
^  he  said  the  words. 

"  Provided  the  lady  made  no  objection,  I  suppose  ? " 
said  ISIr.  Dombey  coldly. 

"  By  Gad,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  the  Bagstock  breed 


DOMBEr  AND  SON.  107 

Bre  not  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  obstacle.  Though  it*8 
true  enough  that  Edith  might  have  married  twen-ty 
times,  but  for  being  proud,  sir,  proud." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  by  his  face,  to  think  no  worset 
of  her  for  that 

"  It's  a  great  quality  after  all,"  said  the  major.  •*  By 
the  Lord,  it's  a  high  quality !  Dombey  !  You  are  proud 
yourself,  and  your  ^iend,  old  Joe,  respects  you  for  it, 
sir." 

With  this  tribute  to  the  character  of  his  ally,  which 
seemed  to  be  wrung  from  him  by  the  force  of  circum- 
stances and  the  irresistible  tendency  of  their  conversa- 
tion, the  major  closed  the  subject,  and  glided  into  a 
general  exposition  of  the  extent  to  which  he  had  been 
beloved  and  doted  on  by  splendid  women  and  brilliant 
creatures. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major 
encountered  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daugh- 
ter in  the  pump-room ;  on  the  day  after,  they  met  them 
again  very  near  the  place  where  they  had  met  them  first. 
After  meeting  them  thus,  three  or  four  times  in  all,  it 
became  a  point  of  mere  civility  to  old  acquaintances, 
that  the  major  should  go  there  one  evening.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey had  not  originally  intended  to  pay  visits,  but  on  the 
major  announcing  this  intention,  he  said  he  would  hava 
the  pleasure  of  accompanying  him.  So  the  major  told 
the  Native  to  go  round  before  dinner,  and  say,  with  his 
and  Mr.  Dombey's  compliments,  that  they  would  have 
the  honor  of  visiting  the  ladies  that  same  evening,  if  the 
ladies  were  alone.  In  answer  to  which  message,  the 
Native  brought  back  a  very  small  note  with  a  very  large 
^[uantity  of  scent  about  it,  indited  by  the  Honorable  Mrs. 
Skewton  to  Major  Bagstock,  and  briefly  saying,  "  You 


108  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

lire  a  shocking  bear  and  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  fo^ 
give  you,  but  if  you  are  very  good  indeed,"  which  waa 
underlined,  "  you  may  come.  Compliments  (in  which 
Edith  unites)  to  Mr.  Dombey." 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Granger,  resided  while  at  Leamington,  in  lodgings  thai 
were  fashionable  enough  and  dear  enough,  but  raihcf 
limited  in  point  of  space  and  conveniences ;  so  that  the 
Honorable  INIrs.  Skewton,  being  in  bed,  had  her  feet  in 
the  window  and  her  head  in  the  fire-place,  while  the 
Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  was  quartered  in  a 
closet  within  the  drawing-room,  so  extremely  small,  that, 
to  avoid  developing  the  whole  of  its  accommodations,  she 
was  obliged  to  writhe  in  and  out  of  the  door  like  a  beau- 
tiful serpent.  Withers,  the  wan  page,  slept  out  of  the 
house  immediately  under  the  tiles  at  a  fteighboring  milk- 
shop;  and  the  wheeled  chair,  which  was  the  stone  of 
that  young  Sisyphus,  passed  the  night  in  a  shed  belong- 
ing to  the  same  dairy,  where  new-laid  eggs  were  pro- 
duced by  the  poultry  connected  with  the  establishment, 
who  roosted  on  a  broken  donkey-cart,  persuaded,  to  all 
appearance,  that  it  grew  there,  and  was  a  species  of 
tree. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  found  Mi-s.  Skewton  ar- 
ranged, as  Cleopatra,  among  the  cushions  of  a  sofa  ;  very 
airily  dressed;  and  certainly  not  resembling  Shakspeare's 
Cleopatra,  whom  age  could  not  wither.  On  their  way  up- 
stairs they  had  heard  the  sound  of  a  harp,  but  it  had- 
cea?ed  on  their  being  announced,  and  P2dith  now  stood 
beside  it  handsomer  and  haughtier  than  ever.  It  was  a 
remarkable  characteristic  of  this  lady's  beauty  that  it 
(ippeared  to  vaunt  and  assert  itself  without  her  aid,  and 
Against  her  will.     She  knew  that  she  was  beaCitiful:  i( 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  109 

was  imf)OSsible  Ibat  it  could  be  otherwise :  but  she  seemed 
with  her  own  pride  to  defy  her  very  self. 

Whether  she  held  cheap,  attractions  that  could  only 
call  forth  admiration  that  was  worthless  to  her,  or  whether 
she  designed  to  render  them  more  precious  to  admirers 
by  this  usage  of  them,  those  to  whom  they  were  precious 
seldom  paused  to  consider. 

"  I  hope,  JMrs.  Granger,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
a  step  towards  her,  "  we  are  not  the  cause  of  your  ceas- 
ing to  play  ?  " 

"  Tou2  oh  no!" 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  on,  then,  my  dearest  Edith  ?  * 
said  Cleoi)iitra. 

*'  I  le!l  off  as  I  began  —  of  my  own  fancy." 

The  exquisite  indifference  of  her  manner  in  saying 
this:  an  indiiference  quite  removed  from  dulness  or  in- 
sensibility, for  it  was  pointed  with  proud  purpose :  was 
well  set  off  by  the  carelessness  with  which  she  drew  her 
hand  across  the  strings,  and  came  from  that  part  of  the 
room. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  her  languishing 
mother,  playing  with  a  hand-screen,  "  that  occasionally 
my  dearest  Edith  and  myself  actually  almost  differ"  — 

"  Not  quite,  sometimes,  mama  ?  "  said  Edith. 

"  Oh  never  quite,  my  darling  !  Fie,  fie,  it  would  break 
my  heart,"  returned  her  mother,  making  a  faint  attempt 
to  pat  her  with  the  screen,  which  Edith  made  no  move- 
ment to  meet,  —  "  about  these  cold  conventionalities  of 
manner  that  are  observed  in  little  things  ?  Why  are  we 
not  more  natural !  Dear  me  !  With  all  those  yearnings, 
and  gushiiigs,  and  impulsive  throbbings  that  we  have  im- 
planted in  our  souls,  and  which  are  so  very  charming 
v\hy  are  we  not  more  natural.''" 


no  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Dombey  said  it  was  very  true,  very  true. 

"  We  could  be  more  natural  I  suppose  if  we  tried  ?  * 
laid  Mrs.  Skewton. 

Mr.  Dombey  thought  it  possible. 

"  Devil  a  bit,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.  "  We  couldn't 
afford  it.  Unless  the  world  was  peopled  with  .J.  B.'s  — 
tough  and  blunt  old  Joes,  ma'am,  plain  red  herrings  with 
hard  roes,  sir  —  we  couldn't  afford  it.     It  wouldn't  do." 

"  You  naughty  infidel,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  be  mute.* 

"  Cleopatra  commands,"  returned  the  major,  kissing  his 
hand,  "  and  Antony  Bagstock  obeys." 

"  The  man  has  no  sensitiveness,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
cruelly  holding  up  the  hand-screen  so  as  to  shut  the 
major  out.  "  No  sympathy.  And  what  do  we  live  for 
but  sympathy!  What  else  is  so  extremely  charming' 
Without  that  gleam  of  sunshine  on  our  cold  cold  earth,"* 
said  Mrs.  Skewton,  arranging  her  lace  tucker,  and  com- 
placently observing  the  effect  of  her  bare  lean  arm, 
looking  upward  from  the  wrist,  "  how  could  we  poss'bly 
bear  it  ?  In  short,  obdurate  man ! "  glancing  at  the 
major,  round  the  screen,  "  I  would  have  ray  world  all 
heart ;  and  Faith  is  so  excessively  charming,  that  I  won't 
allow  you  to  disturb  it,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

The  major  replied  that  it  was  hard  in  Cleopatra  to 
require  the  world  to  be  all  heart,  and  yet  to  appropriate 
to  herself  the  hearts  of  all  the  world  ;  which  obliged 
Cleopatra  to  remind  him  that  flattery  was  insupportable 
to  her,  and  that  if  he  had  the  boldness  to  address  her. 
in  that  strain  any  more,  she  would  positively  send  him 
home. 

Withers  the  Wan,  at  this  period,  handing  round  the 
tea,  Mr.  Dombey  again  addressed  himself  to  Edith. 

"  TJiere  is  not  much  company  here,  it  would  seem  ?  * 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Ill 

said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  own  portentous  gentlemanly 
way. 

"  I  believe  not.     "We  see  none.". 

"  Why  really,"  observed  Mrs.  Skewton  from  her  couch, 
'*  there  are  no  people  here  just  now  with  whom  we  care 
to  associate." 

"  They  have  not  enough  heart,"  said  Edith,  with  a 
Emile.  The  very  twilight  of  a  smile :  so  singularly  were 
its  light  and  darkness  blended. 

*'  My  dearest  Edith  rallies  me,  you  see ! "  said  her 
raolher,  shaking  her  head  :  which  shook  a  little  of  itself 
sometimes,  as  if  the  palsy  twinkled  now  and  then  in  op- 
position to  the  diamonds.     "  Wicked  one  !  " 

"  You  have  been  here  before,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  ?  ** 
said  Mr.  Dombey.     Still  to  Edith. 

"  Oh,  several  times.  I  think  we  have  been  every- 
where." 

"  A  beautiful  country  !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is.     Everybody  says  so." 

"  Your  cousin  Feenix  raves  about  it  Edith,"  interposed 
her  mother  from  her  couch. 

The  daughter  slightly  turned  her  graceful  head,  and 
raising  her  eyebrows  by  a  hair's-breadth  as  if  her  cousin 
Feenix  were  of  all  the  mortal  world  the  least  to  be  re- 
garded, turned  her  eyes  again  towards  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  my  good  taste,  that  I  ara 
tired  of  the  neighborhood,"  she  said. 

"  You  have  almost  reason  to  be,  madam,"  he  replied, 
glancing  at  a  variety  of  landscape  drawings,  of  which  he 
had  already  recognized  several  as  representing  neighbor- 
ing points  of  view,  and  which  were  strewn  abundantly 
ftbout  the  roon>  ''  if  these  beautiful  productions  are  from 
your  hand. ' 


112  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

She  gave  him  no  reply,  but  sat  in  a  disdainful  beauty, 
quite  amazing. 

"  Have  they  that  iijterest  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Are 
Ihey  yours  ?  " 

«Yes." 

"  And  you  play,  I  already  know." 

«  Yes." 

"  And  sing." 

«  Yes." 

She  answered  all  these  questions  with  a  strange  reluc- 
tance ;  and  with  that  remarkable  air  of  opposition  to  her- 
self, already  noticed  as  belonging  to  her  beauty.  Yet 
Bhe  was  not  embarrassed,  but  wholly  self-possessed. 
Neither  did  she  seem  to  wish  to  avoid  the  conversation, 
for  she  addressed  her  face,  and  —  so  far  as  she  could  — 
her  manner  also,  to  him ;  and  continued  to  do  so,  when 
he  was  silent. 

*'  You  have  many  resources  against  weariness  at  least," 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Whatever  their  efficiency  may  be,"  she  returned, 
**  you  know  them  all  now.     I  have  no  more." 

"  May  I  hope  to  prove  them  all  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  solemn  gallantry,  laying  down  a  drawing  he  had 
held,  and  motioning  towards  the  harp. 

"  Oh  certainly  !     If  you  desire  it !  " 

Sho  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  crossing  by  her  mother's 
couch,  and  directing  a  stately  look  towards  her,  which 
was  instantaneous  in  its  duration,  but  inclusive  (if  any 
one  had  seen  it)  of  a  multitude  of  expressions,  among 
which  that  of  the  twilight  smile,  without  the  smile  itself, 
overshadowed  all  the  rest,  went  out  of  the  room. 

The  major,  who  was  quite  forgiven  by  this  time,  had 
wheeled  a  little  table  up  to  Cleopatra,  and  was  sitting 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  H3 

down  to  plaj  piquet  with  her.  Mr.  Dombey,  not  know- 
ing the  game,  sat  down  to  watch  them  for  his  edification 
until  Edith  i^hould  return. 

"  We  are  jroing  to  have  some  music,  IVIr.  Dombey,  1 
hope?"  said  Cleopatra. 

"  Mrs.  Granger  lias  been  kind  enough  to  promise  so,* 
Sfiid  jMr.  Dombey. 

"  All !     Tliat's  very  nice.     Do  you  propose,  major  ?  " 

*♦  No,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.     "  Couldn't  do  it." 

**  You're  a  barbarous  being,"  replied  the  lady,  "  and 
my  hand's  destroyed.  You  are  fond  of  music,  Mr. 
Dombey  ?  " 

"  Eminently  so,"  was  INIr.  Dombey's  answer. 

"  Yes.  It's  very  nice,"  said  Cleopatra,  looking  at  her 
cards.  "  So  much  heart  in  it  —  undeveloped  recollec- 
tions of  a  previous  state  of  existence  —  and  all  that  — ■ 
which  is  so  truly  charming.  Do  you  know,"  simpered 
Cleopatra,  i .  .ersing  the  knave  of  clubs,  who  had  come 
into  her  game  with  his  heels  uppermost,  "  that  if  any- 
thing could  tempt  me  to  put  a  period  to  my  life,  it 
would  be  curiosity  to  find  out  what  it's  all  about,  and 
what  it  means  ;  there  are  so  many  provoking  mysteries, 
really,  that  are  hidden  from  us.     Major,  you  to  play  ! " 

The  major  played  ;  and  IMr.  Dombey  looking  on  for 
his  instruc'.ion,  would  soon  have  been  in  a  state  of  dire 
confusion,  but  that  he  gave  no  attention  to  the  game 
whatever,  and  sat  wondering  instead  when  Edith  would 
come  bat'k. 

She  came  at  last,  and  sat  down  to  her  harp,  and  Mr. 
Dombey  rose  and  stood  beside  her,  listening.  He  had 
little  taste  for  music,  and  no  knowledge  of  the  strain  she 
played,  but  he  saw  her  bending  over  it,  and  perhaps  he 
aeard  among  the  sounding  strings  some  distant  music  of 

VOL.   II.  8 


114  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

his  own,  that  tamed  the  monster  of  the  iron  road,  and 
made  it  less  inexorable. 

Cleopatra  had  a  sharp  eye,  verily,  at  piquet.  It  glis- 
tened like  a  bird's,  and  did  not  fix  itself  upon  the  game, 
but  pierced  the  room  from  end  to  end,  and  gleamed  on 
harp,  performer,  listener,  everything. 

When  the  haughty  beauty  had  concluded,  she  arose, 
and  receiving  Mr.  Dombey's  thanks  and  compliments  in 
exactly  the  same  manner  as  before,  went  with  scarcely 
any  pause,  to  the  piano,  and  began  there. 

Edith  Granger,  any  song  but  that !  Edith  Granger, 
you  are  very  handsome,  and  your  touch  upon  the  keys  is 
brilliant,  and  your  voice  is  deep  and  rich ;  but  not  the 
air  that  his  neglected  daughter  sang  to  his  dead  son  ! 

Alas,  he  knows  it  not ;  and  if  he  did,  what  air  of  hers 
would  stir  him,  rigid  man !  Sleep,  lonely  Florence, 
sleep !  Peace  in  thy  dreams,  although  the  night  haa 
turned  dark,  and  the  clouds  are  gathering,  and  threaten 
to  discharge  themselves  in  hail  I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  115 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A    tKIFLK    OF   MANAGKMENT   BY   MR.   CARKER    THE   MAN- 
AGER. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  sat  at  his  desk,  --uiooth  and 
soft  as  usual,  reading  those  letters  which  were  reserved 
for  him  to  open,  backing  them  occasionally  with  such 
memoranda  and  references  as  their  business  purport  re- 
quired, and  parcelling  them  out  into  little  heaps  for  dis- 
tribution thiough  the  several  departments  of  the  house. 
The  post  had  come  in  heavy  that  morning,  and  Mr.  Car- 
ker the  manager  had  a  good  deal  to  do. 

The  general  action  of  a  man  so  engaged  —  pausing  to 
look  over  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  dealing  them 
round  in  various  portions,  taking  up  another  bundle  and 
examining  its  contents  with  knitted  brows  and  pursed- 
out  lips  —  dealing,  and  sorting,  and  pondering  by  turns 
—  would  easily  suggest  some  whimsical  resemblance  to 
a  player  at  cards.  The  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
was  in  good  keeping  with  such  a  fancy.  It  was  the  faoa 
of  a  man  who  studied  his  play,  warily :  who  made  him- 
self master  of  all  the  sti-ong  and  weak  points  of  the 
game :  who  registered  the  cards  in  his  mind  as  they  fell 
about  him,  knew  exactly  what  was  on  them,  what  they 
missed,  and  what  they  made :  who  was  crafty  to  find  out 
what  the  other  players  held,  and  who  never  betrayed  his 
own  hand. 

The  letters  were  in  various  languages,  but  Mr.  Carkei 


116  DOMKSY  AND  SON. 

the  manager  read  them  all.  If  there  had  been  anything 
in  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  that  he  could  not  read, 
there  would  have  been  a  card  wanting  in  the  pack.  He 
read  almost  at  a  glance,  and  made  combinations  of  one 
letter  with  another  and  one  business  with  another  as  he 
went  on,  adding  jiew  matter  to  the  heaps  —  much  as  a 
man  would  know  the  cards  at  sight,  and  work  out  their 
combinations  in  his  mind  after  they  were  turned.  Some- 
thing too  deep  for  a  partner,  and  much  too  deep  for  an 
adversary,  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  sat  in  the  rays  of 
the  sun  that  came  down  slanting  on  him  through  the  sky- 
light, playing  his  game  alone. 

And  although  it  is  not  among  the  instincts  wild  or 
domestic  of  the  cat  tribe  to  play  at  cards,  feline  from 
sole  to  crown  was  Mr.  Carker  the  raanaj^er,  as  he  basked 
in  the  strip  of  summer-light  and  warmth  that  shone  upon 
his  table  and  the  ground  as  if  they  were  a  crooked  dial- 
plate,  and  himself  the  only  figure  on  it.  With  hair  and 
whiskers  deficient  in  color  at  all  times,  but  feebler  than 
common  in  the  rich  sunshine,  and  more  like  the  coat  of  a 
sandy  tortoise-shell  cat ;  with  long  nails,  nicely  pared, 
and  sharpened  ;  with  a  natural  antipathy  to  any  speck 
of  dirt,  which  made  him  pause  sometimes  and  watch  the 
falling  motes  of  dust,  and  rub  them  oflf  his  smooth  white 
band  or  glossy  linen  :  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  sly  of 
manner,  sharp  of  tooth,  soft  of  foot,  watchful  of  eye, 
oily  of  tongue,  cruel  of  heart,  nice  of  habit,  sat  with  a 
dainty  steadfastness  and  patience  at  his  work,  as  if  he 
were  waiting  at  a  mouse's  hole. 

At  length  the  letters  were  disposed  of,  excepting  one 
which  he  reserved  for  a  particular  audience.  Having 
locked  the  more  confidential  correspondence  in  a  drawer 
Mr.  Carker  the  manager  ranj;  his  belL 


UOMUEY  AND  SON.  llf 

"  Why  do  you  answer  it  ? "  was  his  reception  of  his 
orother. 

"  The  messenger  is  out,  and  I  am  the  next,"  was  the 
submis'iive  reply. 

*'  You  are  the  next  ?  "  muttered  the  manager.  "  Yes  ! 
Creditable  to  me  !     There  ! " 

Pointing  to  the  heaps  of  opened  letters,  he  turned  dis- 
dainfully away  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  broke  the  seal  of 
that  one  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  James,"  said  the  brother, 
gathering  them  up,  "but"  — 

*'  Oil !  You  have  something  to  say.  I  knew  that. 
Well  ?  " 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  not  raise  his  eyes  or  turn 
them  on  his  brother,  but  kept  them  on  his  letter,  though 
without  opening  it. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  repeated  sharply. 

"  I  am  uneasy  about  Harriet." 

*' Harriet  who?  what  Harriet  ."^  I  know  nobody  of 
that  name." 

"  She  is  not  well,  and  has  changed  very  much  of 
late." 

"  She  changed  very  much,  a  great  many  years  ago," 
replied  the  manager ;  "  and  that  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  I  think  if  you  would  hear  me  "  — 

"  Why  should  I  hear  you.  Brother  John  ?  "  returned 
the  manager,  laying  a  sarcastic  emphasis  on  those  two 
wcrds,  and  throwing  up  his  head,  but  not  lifting  his  eyes. 
"  I  tell  you,  Harriet  Carker  made  her  choice  many  years 
ago  between  her  two  brothers.  She  may  repent  it,  but 
«he  must  abide  by  it." 

"  Don't  mistake  me.  I  do  not  say  she  does  repent  it 
It  would  be  black  ingratitude  in  me  to  hint  at  sudi  s 


118  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

thing,"  returned  the  other.  "  Though  believe  me,  James, 
I  am  afi  sorry  for  her  sacrifice  as  you." 

**  As  I  ?  "  exclaimed  the  manager.     "  As  I  ?  " 

"  As  sorry  for  her  choice  —  for  what  you  call  her 
ohoice  —  as  you  are  angry  at  it,"  said  the  Junior. 

"  Angry  ?  "  repeated  the  other,  with  a  wide  show  of 
his  teeth. 

"  Displeased.  Whatever  word  you  like  best.  You 
know  my  meaning.  There  is  no  offence  in  my  inten- 
tion." 

"  There  is  offence  in  everything  you  do,"  replied  his 
brother,  glancing  at  him  with  a  sudden  scowl,  which  in  a 
moment  gave  place  to  a  wider  smile  than  the  last. 
"  Carry  those  papers  away,  if  you  please.     I  am  busy." 

His  politeness  was  so  much  more  cutting  than  his 
wrath,  that  the  Junior  went  to  the  door.  But  stopping 
at  it,  and  looking  round,  he  said : 

"  When  Harriet  tried  in  vain  to  plead  for  me  with 
you,  on  your  first  just  indignation,  and  my  first  disgrace ; 
and  when  she  left  you,  James,  to  follow  ray  broken  for- 
tunes, and  devote  herself,  in  her  mistaken  affection,  to  a 
ruined  brother,  because  without  her  he  had  no  one,  and 
was  lost ;  she  was  young  and  pretty.  I  think  if  you 
could  see  her  now  —  if  you  would  go  and  see  her  — 
she  would  move  your  admiration  and  compassion." 

The  manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his  teeth, 
as  who  should  say,  in  answer  to  some  careless  small- 
talk,  "  Dear  me  !  Is  that  the  case  ?  '  but  said  never  a 
word. 

"  We  thought  in  those  days :  you  and  I  both :  that 
the  would  marry  young,  and  lead  a  happy  and  light- 
hearted  life,"  pursued  the  other.  "  Oh  if  you  knew  how 
?heerliilly  she  cast  those  hopes  away ;   how  cheerfullj 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  119 

she  has  gone  forward  on  the  path  she  took,  and  never 
(race  looked  back  ;  you  never  could  say  again  that  her 
name  was  strange  in  your  ears.     Never !  " 

Again  the  manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his 
teeth,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Remarkable  indeed  !  You 
quite  surprise  me  !  "   And  again  he  uttered  never  a  word. 

"  May  I  go  on  ?  "  said  John  Carker,  mildly. 

"On  your  way?"  replied  his  smiling  brother.  "If 
you  will  have  the  goodness." 

John  Carker,  with  a  sigh,  was  passing  slowly  out  at 
the  door,  when  his  bi'other's  voice  detained  him  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold. 

"  If  she  has  gone  and  goes  her  own  way  cheerfully," 
he  said,  throwing  the  still  unfolded  letter  on  his  desk, 
and  putting  his  hands  firmly  in  his  pockets,  "  you  may 
tell  her  that  I  go  as  cheei'fuUy  on  mine.  If  she  has 
never  once  looked  back,  you  may  tell  her  that  I  have, 
sometimes,  to  recall  her  taking  part  with  you,  and  that 
my  resolution  is  no  easier  to  wear  away ; "  he  smiled 
very  sweetly  here  ;  "  than  marble." 

"  I  tell .  her  nothing  of  you.  We  never  speak  about 
you.  Once  a  year,  on  your  birthday,  Harriet  says  al- 
ways, '  Let  us  remember  James  by  name,  and  wish  him 
happy,'  but  we  say  no  more." 

"  Tell  it  then,  if  you  please,"  returned  the  other,  "  to 
yourself.  You  can't  repeat  it  too  often,  as  a  lesson  to 
you  to  avoid  the  subject  in  speaking  to  me.  I  know  no 
Harriet  Carker.  There  is  no  such  person.  Tou  may 
have  a  sister ;  make  much  of  her.     I  have  none." 

Mr,  Carker  the  manager  took  up  the  letter  again,  and 
waved  it  with  a  smile  of  mock  courtesy  towards  the 
door.  Unfolding  it  as  his  brother  withdrew,  and  looking 
iarkly   after    him    as    he  left  the  room,   be   once   more 


120  DOMBET  ANP  SON. 

turned  round  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  applied  himself  to 
a  diligent  perusal  of  its  contents. 

It  was  in  the  writing  of  his  great  chief,  Mr.  Dombey, 
and  dated  from  Leamington.  Though  he  was  a  qnidt 
reader  of  all  other  letters,  Mr.  Carker  read  this  slowly ; 
weighing  the  words  as  he  went,  and  bringing  every  tooth 
in  his  head  to  bear  upon  them.  When  he  had  read  it 
through  once,  he  turned  it  over  again,  and  picked  oat 
these  passages.  "  I  find  myself  benefited  by  the  change, 
and  am  not  yet  inclined  to  name  any  time  for  my  return." 
"  I  wish,  Carker,  you  would  arrange  to  come  down  once 
and  see  me  here,  and  let  me  know  how  things  are  going 
on,  in  person."  "  I  omitted  to  speak  to  you  about  young 
Gay.  If  not  gone  per  Son  and  Heir,  or  if  Son  and 
Heir  still  lying  in  the  Docks,  appoint  some  other  young 
man  and  keep  him  in  the  city  for  the  present.  I  am  not 
decided."  "  Now  that's  unfortunate  ;  "  said  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager,  expanding  his  mouth,  as  if  it  were  made 
of  india-rubber  :  "  for  he's  far  away  ! " 

Still  that  passage  which  was  in  a  postscript,  attracted 
his  attention  and  his  teeth,  once  more. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  my  good  friend  Captain  Cuttle 
mentioned  something  about  being  towed  along  in  the 
wake  of  that  day.     What  a  pity  he's  so  far  away ! " 

He  refolded  the  letter,  and  was  sitting  trifling  with  it 
standing  it  long-wise  and  broad-wise  on  his  table,  and 
turning  it  over  and  over  on  all  sides  —  doing  pretty 
much  the  same  thing  perhaps,  by  its  contents — when 
Mr.  Perch  the  messenger  knocked  softly  at  the  door, 
and  coming  in  on  tiptoe,  bending  his  body  at  every  step 
«s  if  it  were  the  delight  of  his  life  ta  bow,  laid  some 
papers  on  the  table. 

**  Would  you  please  to  ^be  engaged,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mr 


DOMBEY   AND  SOJ<.  121 

Perch,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  deferentiall)  j>atting  hih 
head  on  one  side,  like  a  man  who  felt  he  had  no  business 
to  hold  it  up  in  such  a  presence,  and  would  keep  it  as 
much  out  of  the  way  as  possible. 

"  Who  wants  me  ?  " 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  a  soft  voice,  "  really 
nobody,  sir,  to  speak  of  at  present.  Mr.  Gills  the  Ship's 
Instrument-maker,  sir,  has  looked  in  about  a  little  mat- 
ter of  payment,  he  says ;  but  I  mentioned  to  him,  sir, 
that  you  was  engaged  several  deep  ;  several  deep." 

Mr.  Perch  coughed  once  behind  his  hand,  and  waited 
for  further  orders. 

"  Anybody  else?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "  I  wouldn't  of  my  own 
self  take  the  liberty  of  mentioning,  sir,  that  there  was 
anybody  else  ;  but  that  same  young  lad  that  was  here 
yesterday,  sir,  and  last  week,  has  been  hanging  about  the 
place ;  and  it  looks,  sir,"  added  Mr.  Perch,  stopping  to 
shut  the  door,  "dreadful  unbusiness-like  to  see  hira 
whistling  to  the  sparrows  down  the  court,  and  making  of 
'em  answer  him." 

"  You  said  he  wanted  something  to  do,  didn't  you, 
Perch  ? "  asked  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  looking  at  that  officer. 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  behind  his 
hand  again,  "  his  expression  certainly  were  that  he  was 
in  wants  of  a  sitiwation,  and  that  he  considered  soino- 
ihing  might  be  done  for  him  about  the  Docks,  being 
used  to  fishing  with  a  rod  and  line:  but" —  Mr.  Perch 
ihook  his  head  very  dubiously  indeed. 

"  What  does  he  say  when  he  comes?"  asked  Mr.  Carker 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  another 
tough  behind  his  hand,  which  was  always  his  resourcf 


122  DOMBEY  ANT)  SON. 

as  an  expressiun  of~humility  when  nothing  tilse  occurred 
to  him,  "  his  observation  generally  air  that  he  would 
humbly  wish  to  see  one  of  the  gentlemen,  and  that  he 
wants  to  earn  a  living.  But  you  see,  sir,"  added  Perch, 
dropping  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  turning,  in  the  in- 
violable nature  of  his  confidence,  to  give  the  door  a 
thrust  with  his  hand  and  knee,  as  if  that  would  shut  it 
any  more  when  it  was  shut  already,  "  it's  hardly  to  be 
bore,  sir,  that  a  common  lad  like  that  should  come  a 
prowling  here,  and  saying  that  his  mother  nursed  our 
House's  young  gentleman,  and  that  he  hopes  our  House 
will  give  him  a  chance  on  that  account.  I  am  sure,  sir," 
observed  Mr.  Perch,  *'  that  although  Mrs.  Perch  was  at 
that  time  nursing  as  thriving  a  little  girl,  sir,  as  we've 
ever  took  the  liberty  of  adding  to  our  family,  I  wouldn't 
have  made  so  free  as  drop  a  hint  of  her  being  capable 
of  imparting  nourishment,  not  if  it  was  ever  so  !  " 

Mr.  Carker  grinned  at  him  like  a  shark,  but  in  an 
absent,  thoughtful  manner. 

"  Whether,"  submitted  Mr.  Perch,  after  a  short  silence 
and  another  cough,  "  it  mightn't  be  best  for  me  to  tell 
him,  that  if  he  was  seen  here  any  more  he  would  l>e 
given  into  custody  ;  and  to  keep  to  it !  With  respect  to 
bodily  fear,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "  I'm  so  timid,  myself,  by 
nature,  sir,  and  my  nerves  is  so  unstrung  by  Mrs.  Perch's 
rtate,  that  I  could  take  my  affidavit  easy." 

"  Let  me  see  this  fellow.  Perch,"  said  Mr  Carker. 
'*  Bring  him  in  !  "  - 

♦*Yes,  sir.  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Porch,  hesitating  at  the  door,  "  he's  rough,  sir,  in  ap- 
pearance." 

"  Never  mind.  If  he's  there,  bring  him  in.  I'll  see 
Mr.  Gills  directly.     Ask  him  to  wait  1  " 


DOMBEY  AJTO  SON.  128 

Mr.  Perch  bowed  ;  and  shutting  the  door  as  precisely 
and  carefully  as  if  he  were  not  coming  back  for  a  week, 
went  on  his  quest  among  the  sparrows  in  the  court. 
While  he  was  gone,  Mr.  Carker  assumed  his  favorite  at- 
titude before  the  fire-place,  and  stood  looking  at  tlie 
door  ;  presenting  with  his  under-lip  tucked  into  the 
emile  that  showed  his  whole  row  of  upper  teeth,  a  sin- 
gularly crouching  appearance. 

The  messenger  was  not  long  in  returning,  followed  by 
a  pair  of  heavy  boots  that  came  bumping  along  the  pas- 
sage like  boxes.  With  the  unceremonious  words  *'  Come 
along  with  you !  "  —  a  very  unusual  form  of  introduction 
from  his  lips — Mr.  Perch  then  ushered  into  the  pres- 
ence a  strong-built  lad  of  fifteen,  with  a  round  red  face, 
a  round  sleek  head,  round  black  eyes,  round  limbs,  and 
round  body,  who,  to  carry  out  the  general  rotundity  of 
his  appearance,  had  a  round  hat  in  his  hand,  without  a 
particle  of  brim  to  it. 

Obedient  to  a  nod  from  Mr.  Carker,  Perch  had  no 
sooner  confronted  the  visitor  with  that  gentleman  than 
he  withdrew.  The  moment  they  were  face  to  face  alone, 
Mr.  Carker,  without  a  word  of  preparation,  took  him  by 
the  throat,  and  shook  him  until  his  head  seemed  loose 
upon  his  shoulders. 

The  boy,  who  in  the  midst  of  his  astonishment  could 
not  help  staring  wildly  at  the  gentleman  with  so  many 
white  teeth,  who  was  choking  him,  and  at  the  oflice-walls, 
Bs  though  determined,  if  he  were  choked,  that  his  last 
look  should  be  at  the  mysteries  for  his  intrusion  into 
which  he  was  paying  such  a  severe  penalty,  at  last  con 
trived  to  utter  — 

"  Come,  sir !     You  let  me  alone,  will  you  I " 

"Let   vou   alone  1"   said  Mr.   Carker.     "Whatl     I 


124  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

have  got  you,  have  I  ? "  There  was  no  doabt  of  that, 
and  tightly  too.  "  You  dog,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  through 
his  set  jaws,  "  I'll  strangle  you  !  " 

Biler  whimpered,  would  he  though  ?  oh,  no  he  would- 
n't—  and  what  was  he  doing  of — and  why  didn't  he 
strangle  somebody  of  his  own  size  and  not  him :  but 
Biler  was  quelled  by  the  extraordinaiy  nature  of  his 
reception,  and,  as  his  head  became  stationary,  and  he 
looked  the  gentleman  in  the  face,  or  rather  in  the  teeth, 
and  saw  him  snarling  at  him,  he  so  far  forgot  his  man- 
hood as  to  cry. 

"  I  haven't  done  nothing  to  you,  sir,"  said  Biler,  other- 
wise Rob,  otherwise  Grinder,  and  always  Toodle. 

"  You  young  scoundrel ! "  replied  Mr.  Carker,  slowly 
releasing  him,  and  moving  back  a  step  into  his  favorite 
position.    "  What  do  you  mean  by  daring  to  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  no  harm,  sir,"  whimpered  Rob,  putting 
one  hand  to  his  throat,  and  the  knuckles  of  the  other  to 
his  eyes.  "  I'll  never  come  again,  sir.  I  only  wanted 
work." 

"  Work,  young  Cain  that  you  are !  "  repeat(;d  Mr. 
Carker,  eying  him  narrowly.  "  A'n't  you  the  idlest 
vagabond  in  London  ?  " 

The  impeachment,  while  it  much  affected  Mr.  Toodle 
junior,  attached  to  his  character  so  justly,  that  he  could 
not  say  a  word  in  denial.  He  stood  looking  at  the  gen- 
tleman, therefore,  with  a  frightened,  self-convicted,  and 
remorseful  air.  As  to  his  looking  at  him,  it  may  be 
observed  that  he  was  fascinated  by  Mr.  Carker  and  nev^T 
took  his  round  eyes  off  him  for  an  instant. 

"  A'n't  you  a  thief?  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hands 
behind  him  in  his  pockets. 

"  No,  sir,"  pleaded  Rob. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  116 

"  You  are  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

**  I  a'n't  indeed,  sir,"  whimpered  Rob.  "  I  never  did 
such  a  thing  as  thieve,  sir,  if  you'll  believe  me.  I  know 
I've  been  going  wrong,  sir,  ever  since*!  took  to  bird-catch- 
ing and  walking-matching.  I'm  sure  a  cove  might  think," 
said  Mr.  Toodle  junior,  with  a  burst  of  penitence,  "that 
singing-birds  Avas  innocent  company,  but  nobody  knows 
what  harm  is  in  them  little  creeturs  and  what  they  brings 
you  down  to." 

They  seemed  to  have  brought  him  down  to  a  velveteen 
jacket  and  trousers  very  much  the  worse  for  wear,  a 
particularly  small  red  waistcoat  like  a  gorget,  an  interval 
of  blue  check,  and  the  hat  before-mentioned. 

'*  I  a'n't  been  home  twenty  times  since  them  birds  got 
their  will  of  me,"  said  Rob,  "  and  that's  ten  months. 
How  can  I  go  home  when  everybody's  miserable  to  see 
me !  I  wonder,"  said  Biler,  blubbering  outright,  and 
smearing  his  eyes  with  his  coat-cuff,  "  that  I  haven't 
been  and  drownded  myself  over  and  over  again." 

All  of  which,  including  his  expression  of  surprise  at 
not  having  achieved  this  last  scarce  performance,  the  boy 
said,  just  as  if  the  teeth  of  Mr.  Carker  drew  it  out  of 
him,  and  he  had  no  power  of  concealing  anything  with 
that  battery  of  attraction  in  full  play. 

"  You're  a  nice  young  gentleman  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker, 
shaking  his  head  at  him.  "  There's  hemp-seed  sown  for 
ou,  my  fine  fellow  !  " 

"  I'm  sure,  sir,"  returned  the  wretched  Biler,  blubber- 
ing again,  and  again  having  recourse  to  his  coat-cuff: 
''  I  shouldn't  care,  sometimes,  if  it  was  growed  too.  My 
misfortunes  all  began  in  wagging,  sir ;  but  what  could  J 
io,  exceptin'  wag  ?  " 

"  Excepting  what  r  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 


126  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  Wag,  sir.     Wagging  from  school." 

"  Do  you  mean  pretending  to  go  there,  and  not  going?" 
said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that's  wagging,  sir,"  returned  the  quondam 
Grinder>  much  affected.  "  I  was  chivied  through  the 
streets,  sir,  when  I  went  there,  and  pounded  when  1  got 
there.     So  I  wagged,  and  hid  myself,  and  that  began  it." 

"  And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking 
him  by  the  throat  again,  holding  him  out  at  arm's-length, 
and  surveying  him  in  silence  for  some  moments,  "  that 
you  want  a  place,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  thankful  to  be  tried,  sir,"  returned  Too- 
dle  junior,  faintly. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  pushed  him  backwards  into 
a  corner  —  the  boy  submitting  quietly,  hardly  venturing 
to  breathe,  and  never  once  removing  his  eyes  from  hia 
face  —  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Gills  to  come  here." 

Mr.  Perch  was  too  deferential  to  express  surprise  or 
recognition  of  the  figure  in  the  corner :  and  Uncle  Sol 
appeared  immediately. 

<'  Mr.  Gills ! "  said  Carker,  with  a  smile,  "  sit  down. 
How  do  you  do  ?  You  continue  to  enjoy  your  health,  1 
hope?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  taking  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  handing  over  some  notes  as  he  spoke. 
''Nothing  ails  me  in  body  but  old  age.  Twenty-five, 
sir." 

"  You  are  as  punctual  and  exact,  Mr.  Gills,"  replied' 
the  smiling  manager,  taking  a  paper  from  one  of  hia 
many  drawers,  and  making  an  indorsement  on  it,  while 
Uncle  Sol  looked  over  him,  "  as  one  of  your  own  chro- 
nometer?.    Quite  rights" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Iff 

'  **  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,  I  find  by 
the  list,  sir,"  said  Uncle  Sol,  with  a  slight  addition  to  th* 
usual  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,"  returned 
Carker.  "  There  seems  to  have  been  tempestuoas 
weather,  Mr.  Gills,  and  she  has  probably  been  driven 
ont  of  her  course." 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  Heaven  ! "  said  old  Sol. 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  Heaven ! "  assented  Mr. 
Carker  in  that  voiceless  manner  of  his :  which  made 
the  observant  young  Toodle  tremble  again.  "Mr.  Gills,** 
he  added  aloud,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
"  you  must  miss  your  nephew  very  much  ? " 

Uncle  Sol,  standing  by  him,  shook  his  head  and 
heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Mr.  Gills,"  said  Carker,  with  his  soft  hand  playing 
round  his  mouth,  and  looking  up  into  the  instruments 
maker's  face,  "  it  would  be  company  to  you  to  have  a 
young  fellow  in  your  shop  just  now,  and  it  would  be 
obliging  me  if  you  would  give  one  house-room  for  the 
present.  No,  to  be  sure,"  he  added  quickly,  in  antici- 
pation of  what  the  old  man  was  going  to  say,  "  there's 
not  much  business  doing  there,  I  know :  but  you  can 
make  him  clean  the  place  out,  polish  up  the  instru- 
ments ;  drudge,  Mr.  Gills.     That's  the  lad  !  " 

Sol  Gills  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from  his  forehead 
to  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Toodle  junior  standing  upright 
in  the  corner,  his  head  presenting  the  appearance  (which 
it  always  did)  of  having  been  newly  drawn  out  of  a 
bucket  of  cold  water ;  his  small  waistcoat  rising  and 
falling  quickly  in  the  play  of  his  emotions ;  and  his 
eyes  intently  fixed  on  Mr.  Carker,  without  the  leas! 
refeience  to  his   proposed  master. 


128  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

**  Will  you  give  him  house-room,  Mr.  Gills  ?  '  said 
the  manager. 

Old  Sol,  without  being  quite  enthusiastic  on  the  sulv 
ject,  replied  that  he  was  glad  of  any  opportunity,  how- 
ever slight,  to  oblige  Mr.  Carker,  whose  wish  on  such 
a  point  was  a  command :  and  that  the  Wooden  Mid- 
shipinan  would  consider  himself  happy  to  receive  in 
his  berth  any  visitor  of  Mr.  Carker's  selecting. 

Mr.  Carker  bared  himself  to  the  tops  and  bottoms  of 
his  gums :  making  the  watchful  Toodle  junior  tremble 
more  and  more :  and  acknowledged  the  instrument- 
maker's  politeness  in  his  most  affable  manner. 

"  I'll  dispose  of  him  so,  then,  Mr.  Gills,"  he  answered, 
rising,  and  shaking  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  "  until  I 
make  up  my  mind  what  U>  do  with  him,  and  what  he 
deserves.  As  I  consider  myself  responsible  for  him, 
Mr.  Gills,"  here  he  smiled  a  wide  smile  at  Rob,  who 
shook  before  it :  "I  shall  be  glad  if  you'll  look  sharply 
after  him,  and  report  his  behavior  to  me.  I'll  ask  a 
question  or  two  of  his  parents  a^  I  ride  home  this  after- 
noon —  respectable  people  —  to  confirm  some  particu- 
lars in  his  own  account  of  himself;  and  that  done,  Mr. 
Gills,  I'll  send  him  round  to  yoQ  to-morrow  morning. 
Good- by  I" 

His  smile  at  parting  was  so  full  of  teeth,  that  it  con- 
tused old   Sol,   and    made   him   vaguely   uncomfortable. 
He    went   home,    thinking   of    raging   seas,    foundering' 
ships,  drowning  men,  an  ancient  bottle  of  Madeira  nevsr-_ 
brought  to  light,  and  other  dismal  matter. 

"  Now,  boy  ! "  said  Mr.  Carker,  putting  his  hind  en 
young  Toodle's  shoulder,  and  bringing  him  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.     "  You  have  heard  me  ?  " 

Rob  said,  "  Yes,  sir." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  129 

**  Perhaps  you  understand,"  pursued  his  patron,  "that 
if  you  ever  deceive  or  play  tiicks  with  rae,  you  "nad 
better  have  drowned  yourself,  indeed,  once  for  all  be- 
fore you  came  here  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  in  any  branch  of  mental  acqui- 
sition that  Rob  seemed  to  understand  better  than  that 

"  If  you  have  lied  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  in  any- 
thing, never  come  in  my  way  again.  If  not,  you  may 
let  mo  find  you  waiting  for  me  somewhere  near  your 
mother's  house  this  afternoon.  I  shall  leave  this  at  five 
o'clock,  and  ride  there  on  horseback.  Now,  give  me 
the  address," 

Rob  repeated  it  slowly,  as  Mr.  Carker  wrote  it  down. 
Rub  even  spelt  it  over  a  second  time,  letter  by  letter,  as 
if  he  thought  that  the  omission  of  a  dot  or  scratch  would 
lead  to  his  destruction.  Mr.  Carker  then  handed  him 
uut  of  the  room  :  and  Rob,  keeping  his  round  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  patron  to  the  last,  vanished  for  the  time  be- 
ing. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  a  great  deal  of  business 
ill  the  course  of  the  day,  and  bestowed  his  teeth  upon  a 
great  many  people.  In  the  office,  in  the  court,  in  the 
street,  and  on  'Change,  they  glistened  and  bristled  to  a 
terrible  extent.  Five  o'clock  arriving,  and  with  it  Mr. 
Carker's  bay  horse,  they  got  on  horseback,  and  went 
gleaming  up  Cheapside. 

As  no  one  can  easily  ride  fast,  even  if  inclined  to  do 
90,  through  the  press  and  throng  of  the  city  at  that 
hour,  and  as  Mr.  Carker  was  not  inclined,  he  went 
leisurely  along,  picking  his  way  among  the  carts  and 
?arriages,  avoiding  whenever  he  could  the  wetter  and 
more  dirty  places  in  the  over-watered  road,  and  taking 
\nfinite    pains   to   keep    himself    and    his   Gteed   clean. 

-    VOL.  ti.  9 


180  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Glancing  at  the  passers-by  while  he  was  thus  amhling 
on  his  way,  he  suddenly  encountered  the  round  eyes 
of  the  sleek-headed  Rob  intently  fixed  upon  hi>  face, 
as  if  they  had  never  been  taken  off,  while  the  boy 
himself,  with  a  pocket-handkerchief  twisted  up  like  a 
speckled  eel  and  girded  round  his  waist,  made  a  very 
conspicuous  demonstration  of  being  prepared  to  attend 
upon  him,  at  whatever  pace  he  might  think  proper  to 

go- 

This  attention  however  flattering,  being  one  of  an  an- 
usual  kind,  and  attracting  some  notice  from  the  other 
passengers,  Mr.  Carker  took  advantage  of  a  clearer 
thoroughfare  and  a  cleaner  road,  and  broke  into  a  trot. 
Rob  immediately  did  the  same.  Mr.  Carker  presently 
tried  a  canter;  Rob  was  still  in  attendance.  Then  a 
short  gallop  ;  it  was  all  one  to  the  boy.  Whenever  Mr. 
Carker  turned  his  eyes  to  that  side  of  the  road,  he  still 
saw  Toodle  junior  holding  his  course,  apparently  without 
distress,  and  working  himself  along  by  the  elbows  after 
the  most  approved  manner  of  professional  gentlemen 
who  get  over  the  ground  for  wagers. 

Ridiculous  as  this  attendance  was,  it  was  a  sign  of  aii 
influence  established  over  the  boy,  and  therefore  Mr. 
Carker,  affecting  not  to  notice  it,  rode  away  into  the 
neighborhood  of  Mr.  Toodle's  house.  On  his  slackening 
his  pace  here,  Rob  appeared  before  him  to  point  out  the 
turnings  ;  and  when  he  called  to  a  man  at  a  neighboring 
gateway  to  hoU  his  horse,  pending  his  visit  to  the  Build- 
ings that  had  succeeded  Staggs's  Gardens,  Rob  dutifully 
held  the  stirrup,  while  the  manager  dismounted. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  him  by  the  shoul- 
der, "  fX)me  along !  " 

The  prodigal  son  was  evidently  nervous  of  visiting  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  131 

parental  abo<le :  but  Mr.  Carker  pushing  him  on  before, 
he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  open  the  right  door,  and  suf- 
fer himself  to  be  walked  info  the  midst  of  his  brothers 
and  sisters,  mustered  in  overwhelming  force  round  the 
family  tea-table.  At  sight  of  the  prodigal  in  the  grasp 
of  a  stranger,  these  tender  relations  united  in  a  general 
howl,  which  smote  upon  the  prodigal's  breast  so  sharply 
when  he  saw  his  mother  stand  up  among  them,  pale  and 
trembling  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  that  he  lent  his 
own  voice  to  the  chorus. 

Nothing  doubting  now  that  the  stranger,  if  not  Mr. 
Ketch  in  person,  was  one  of  that  company,  the  whole  of 
the  young  family  wailed  the  louder,  while  its  more  in- 
fantine members,  unable  to  control  the  transports  of 
emotion  appertaining  to  their  time  of  life,  threw  them- 
selves on  their  backs  like  young  birds  when  terrified  by 
a  hawk,  and  kicked  violently.  At  length,  poor  Polly 
making  herself  audible,  said,  with  quivering  lips,  "  0 
Rob,  my  poor  boy,  what  have  you  done  at  last ! " 

"  Nothing,  mother,"  cried  Rob,  in  a  piteous  voice, 
•'  ask  the  gentleman  !  " 

"  Don't  be  alairaed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  want  to  do 
him  good." 

At  this  announcement,  Polly,  who  had  not  cried  yet, 
began  to  do  so.  The  elder  Toodles,  who  appeared  to 
have  been  meditating  a  rescue,  unclinched  their  fists. 
The  younger  Toodles  clustered  round  their  mother's 
(;own,  and  peeped  from  under  their  own  chubby  arms  at 
tb(,'ir  desperado  brother  and  his  unknown  friend.  Every 
omly  blessed  the  gentleman  with  the  beautiful  teeth,  who 
wanted  to  do  good. 

"  This  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Carker  to  Polly,  giving  liim  a 
^sntle  shake,  "is  your  son,  eh,  ma'am  ?" 


132  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  Yes,  sir,"  sobbed  Polly,  with  a  courtesy ;  "  yes,  sir" 

"  A  bad  son,  I  am  afraid  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Never  a  bad  son  to  me,"  sir,"  returned  Polly. 

"  To  whom  then  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Carker. 

"  He  has  been  a  little  wild,  sir,"  replied  Polly,  chock- 
ing the  baby,  who  was  making  convulsive  efforts  with  his 
arms  and  legs  to  launch  himself  on  Biler,  through  the 
ambient  air,  "  and  has  gone  with  wrong  companions  ;  but 
I  hope  he  has  seen  the  misery  of  tliat,  sir,  and  will  do 
well  again." 

Mr,  Carker  looked  at  Polly,  and  the  clean  room  and 
the  clean  children,  and  the  simple  Toodle  face,,  combined 
of  father  and  mother,  that  was  reflected  and  repeated 
eveiywhere  about  him  :  and  seemed  to  have  achieved 
the  real  purpose  of  his  visit. 

"Your  husband,  I  take  it,  is  not  at  home?"  he  said. 

'•  No,  sir,"  repHed  Polly.  "  He's  down  the  line  at 
present." 

The  prodigal  Rob  seemed  very  much  relieved  to  hear 
it :  though  still  in  the  absorption  of  all  his  faculties  in  his 
patron,  he  hardly  took  his  eyes  -from  Mr.  Carker's  face 
unless  for  a  moment  at  a  time  to  steal  a  sorrowful  glance 
at  his  mother. 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I'll  tell  you  how  T  have 
Btumbled  on  this  boy  of  yours,  and  who  I  am,  and  what 
I  am  going  to  do  for  hrm." 

This  Mr.  Carker  did,  in  his  own  way :  saying  that  he 
Bt  first  intended  to  have  accumulated  nameless  terrors  on 
his  presumptuous  head,  for  coming  to  the  whereabout  of 
Dombey  and  Son.  That  he  had  relented,  in  considera- 
tion of  his  youth,  his  professed  contrition,  and  his  friends. 
That  he  was  afraid  he  took  a  rash  step  in  doing  anything 
for  the  boy.  and  one  that  might  expose  him  to  the  ceu 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  133 

sure  of  the  prudent ;  but  that  he  did  it  of  himself  and 
for  himself,  and  risked  the  consequences  single-handed ! 
and  that  his  mother's  past  connection  with  Mr.  Donibey's 
family  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  that  Mr.  Dorabey 
})ad  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  that  he,  Mr.  Carker,  was 
the  be-all,  and  the  end-all  of  this  Uisiness.  Taking  great 
uredit  to  himself  for  his  goodness,  and  receiving  no  less 
from  all  the  family  then  present,  Mr.  Carker  s^ignified, 
indirectly  but  still  pretty  plainly,  that  Rob's  implicit 
fldelity,  attachment,  and  devotion,  were  forevermore  his 
due,  and  the  least  homage  he  could  receive.  And  with 
this  great  truth  Rob  himself  was  so  ioipressed,  that, 
standing  gazing  on  his  patron  with  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks,  he  nodded  his  shiny  head  until  it  seemed 
almost  as  loose  as  it  had  done  under  the  same  patron's 
hands  that  morning. 

Polly,  who  had  pttssed  Heaven  knows  how  many  sleep- 
less nights  on  account  of  this  her  dissipated  first-born, 
and  had  not  seen  him  for  weeks  and  weeks,  could  have 
almost  kneeled  to  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  to  a  good 
spirit  —  in  spite  of  his  teeth.  But  Mr.  Carker  rising  to 
depart,  she  only  thanked  him  with  her  mother's  prayers 
and  blessings ;  thanks  so  rich  when  paid  out  of  the 
heart's  mint,  especially  for  any  service  Mr.  Carker  had 
rendered,  that  he  might  have  given  back  a  large  amount 
of  change,  and  yet  been  overpaid. 

As  that  gentleman  made  his  way  among  the  crowding 
children  to  the  door,  Rob  retreated  on  his  mother,  and 
look  her  and  the  baby  in  the  same  repentant  hug. 

"  I'll  try  hard,  dear  mother,  now.  Upon  my  soul  I 
will ! "  said  Rob. 

"  Oh  do,  my  dear  boy !  I  am  sure  you  will,  for  oui 
iake-*  and  your  own  !  "  cried  Polly,  kissing  him.     "  But 


184  DOMBEY  AND  SOl^. 

you're  coming  back  to  speak  to  me,  when  you  have  seea 
the  gentleman  away  ?  " 

**  I  don't  know,  mother."  Rob  hesitated,  and  looked 
down.     "  Father  —  when's  he  coming  home  ?  " 

"  Not  till  two  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

**  I'll  come  back,  mother  dear ! "  cried  Rob.  And 
passing  through  the  shrill  cry  of  his  brothers  and  sisters 
ill  reception  of  this  promise,  he  followed  Mr.  Carker  out. 

^  What ! "  said  Mr.  Carker,  who  had  heard  this. 
•*You  have  a  bad  father,  have  you?" 

"No,  sir!"  returned  Rob,  amazed.  "There  a'n't  a 
better  nor  a  kinder  father  going,  than  mine  is." 

"  Why  don't  you  want  to  see  him  then  ?  "  inquired  his 
patron. 

"There's  such  a  difference  between  a  father  and  a 
mother,  sir,"  said  Rob,  after  faltering  for  a  moment 
"  He  couldn't  hardly  believe  yet  that  I  was  going  to  do 
better  —  though  I  know  he'd  try  to  —  but  a  mother  — 
she  always  believes  what's  good,  sir ;  at  least  I  know  my 
mother  does,  God  bless  her !  " 

Mr.  Carker's  mouth  expanded,  but  he  said  no  more 
until  he  was  mounted  on  his  horse,  and  had  dismissed 
the  man  who  held  it,  when,  looking  down  from  the  sad- 
dle steadily  into  the  attentive  and  watchful  face  of  the 
boy,  he  said : 

"  You'll  come  to  me  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  shall 
be  shown  where  that  old  gentleman  lives ;  that  old  gen« 
tleman  who  was  with  me  this  morning ;  where  you  are_ 
going,  as  you  heard  me  say." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Rob. 

"  I  have  a  great  interest  in  that  old  gentleman,  and  in 
serving  him,  you  serve  me,  boy,  do  you  understand  ? 
Well,"  he  added,  interrupting  him,  for  he  saw  his  round 


DOMBEY  ANL   SON.  135 

face  brip[\iten  when  he  was  told  that :  "I  see  you  do.  I 
want  to  know  all  about  that  old  gentleman,  and  how  he 
goes  on  from  day  to  day  —  for  I  am  anxious  to  be  of 
service  to  him — and  especially  who  comes  there  to  see 
hitn.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Rob  nodded  his  steadfast  face,  and  said  '*  Yea,  sir," 
again. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  that  he  has  friends  who  are 
attentive  to  hira,  and  that  they  don't  desert  him  —  for 
he  lives  very  much  alone  now,  poor  fellow ;  but  that 
they  are  fond  of  him,  and  of  his  nephew  who  has  gone 
abroad.  Tliere  is  a  very  young  lady  who  may  perhaps 
come  to  see  him.  I  want  particularly  to  know  all  about 
her." 

"  I'll  take  care,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"  And  lake  ca're,"  returned  his  patron,  bending  for- 
ward to  advance  his  grinning  face  closer  to  the  boy's, 
and  pat  hira  on  the  shoulder  with  the  handle  of  his 
whip:  "  take  care  you  talk  about  affairs  of  mine  to  no- 
body but  me." 

"  To  nobody  in  the  world,  sir,"  replied  Rob,  shaking 
his  head. 

"  Neither  there,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  pointing  to  the 
place  they  had  just  left,  "  nor  anywhere  else.  I'll  try 
bow  true  and  grateful  you  can  be.  I'll  prove  you  ! " 
Making  this,  by  his  display  of  teeth  and  by  the  action 
of  his  head,  as  much  a  threat  as  a  promise,  he  tumtd 
from  Rob's  eyes,  which  were  nailed  upon  him  as  if  he 
bad  won  the  boy  by  a  charm,  body  and  soul,  and  rode 
Rway.  But  again  becoming  conscious,  after  trotting  a 
'.hort  distance,  that  his  devoted  henchman,  girt  as  be- 
fore, was  yielding  him  the  same  attendance,  to  the  greaf 
imusemcnt  of  sundry  spectators,  he  reined  up,  and  or 


136  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

dered  him  off.  To  insure  his  obedience,  he  turned  in 
the  saddle  and  watched  him  as  he  retired.  It  was  curi- 
ous to  see  that  even  then  Rob  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
wholly  averted  from  his  patron's  face,  but,  constantly 
turning  and  turning  again  to  look  after  him,  involved 
himself  in  a  tempest  of  buffetings  and  jostlings  from 
the  other  passengers  in  the  street :  of  which,  in  tho 
pursuit  of  the  one  paramount  idea,  he  was  perfectly 
heedless. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rode  on  a  foot  pace,  with 
the  easy  air  of  one  who  had  performed  all  the  business 
of  the  day  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  and  got  it  com- 
fortably off  his  mind.  Complacent  and  affable  as  man 
could  be,  ISIr.  Carker  picked  his  way  along  the  streets 
and  hummed  a  soft;  tune  as  he  went.  He  seemed  to 
purr:  he  was  so  glad. 

And  in  some  sort,  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  fancy,  basked 
upon  a  hearth  too.  Coiled  xip  snugly  at  certain  feet, 
he  was  ready  for  a  spring,  or  for  a  tear,  or  for  a  scratch, 
or  for  a  velvet  touch,  as  the  humor  took  him  and  occa- 
sion served.  "Was  there  any  bird  in  a  cage,  that  came 
in  for  a  share  of  his  regards  ? 

"  A  very  young  lady  ! "  thought  Mr.  Carker  the  man- 
ager, through  his  song.  "  Ay !  when  I  saw  her  last, 
she  was  a  little  child.  With  dark  eyes  and  hair,  I 
recollect,  and  a  good  face ;  a  very  good  face  !  I  iare 
eay  sht's  pretty." 

More  affable  and  pleasant  yet,  and  humming  his  song-, 
until  his  many  teeth  vibrated  to  it,  Mr.  Carker  picked 
Uis  way  along,  and  turned  at  last  into  the  shady  street 
where  Mr.  Dombey's  house  stood.  He  had  been  eo 
busy,  winding  webs  round  good  faces,  and  obscuring 
Uiem  with    meshes,    that   he    hardly  thought    of  beinfl 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  137 

Rl  this  point  of  his  ride,  until,  glancing  down  fho  oold 
perspective  of  tall  houses,  he  reined  in  his  horse  quickly 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  door.  But  to  explain  why 
Mr.  Carker  reined  in  his  horse  quickly,  and  what  he 
lof)ked  at  in  no  small  surprise,  a  few  digres»sive  wordi; 
are  necessary. 

IMr.  Toots,  emancipated  from  the  Blimber  thraldom 
and  coming  into  the  possession  of  a  certain  portion  of 
his  worldly  wealth,  "  which,"  as  he  had  been  wont,  during 
his  last  half-year's  probation,  to  communicate  to  Mr. 
Feeder  every  evening  as  a  new  discovery,  "  the  execu- 
tors couldn't  keep  him  out  of,"  had  applied  himself,  with 
great  diligence,  to  the  science  of  Life.  Fired  with  a 
noble  emulation  to  pursue  a  brilliant  and  distinguished 
career,  Mr.  Toots  had  furnished  a  choice  set  of  apart- 
ments ;  had  established  among  them  a  sporting  bower, 
embellished  with  the  portraits  of  winning  horses,  in 
which  he  took  no  particle  of  interest ;  and  a  divan, 
which  made  him  poorly.  In  this  delicious  abode,  Mr. 
Toots  devoted  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  those  gentle 
arts  which  refine  and  humanize  existence,  his  chief  in- 
structor in  which  was  an  interesting  character  called  the 
Game  Chicken,  who  was  always  to  be  heard  of  at  the 
bar  of  the  Black  Badger,  wore  a  shaggy  white  great- 
coat in  the  warmest  weather,  and  knocked  Mr.  Toots 
about  the  head  three  times  a  week,  for  the  small  con- 
sideration of  ten  and  six  per  visit. 

The  Game  Chicken,  who  was  quite  the  Apollo  of  Mr. 
Toots's  Pantheon,  had  introduced  to  him  a  marker  who 
•^ught  billiards,  a  Life  Guard  who  taught  fencing,  a  job- 
master who  taught  riding,  a  Cornish  gentleman  who  was 
p  to  anything  in  the  athletic  line,  and  two  or  three 
other  friends  connected  no  less  intimately  with  the  fine 


»38  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

irts.  Under  whose  auspices  Mr.  Toots  could  hardly 
fail  to  improve  apace,  and  under  whose  tuition  he  went 
to  work. 

But,  however  it  came  about,  it  came  to  pass,  even 
while  thege  gentlemen  had  the  gloss  of  novelty  upon 
tlii;ra,  that  Mr.  Toots  felt,  he  didn't  know  how,  unsettled 
»nd  uneasy.  There  were  husks  in  his  corn,  that  even 
Oaino  Chickens  couldn't  peck  up ;  gloomy  giants  in  his 
leisure,  that  even  Game  Chickens  couldn't  knock  down. 
Nothing  seemed  to  do  Mr.  Toots  so  much  good  as  in- 
cessantly leaving  cards  at  Mr.  Dombey's  door.  No 
lax-gatherer  in  the  British  dominions  —  that  wide-spread 
territory  on  which  the  sun  never  sets,  and  where  the 
tax-gatherer  never  goes  to  bed  —  was  more  regular  and 
persevering  in  his  calls  than  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots  never  went  up-stairs ;  and  always  per- 
formed the  same  ceremonies,  richly  dressed  for  the  pur- 
pose, at  the  hall-door. 

'•  Oh  !  Good-morning !  "  would  be  Mr.  Toots's  first 
remark  to  the  servant.  "  For  Mr.  Dombey,"  would  be 
Mr.  Toots's  next  remark,  as  he  handed  in  a  card. 
•*  For  Miss  Dombey,"  would  be  his  next,  as  he  handed 
in  another. 

Mr.  Toots  would  then  turn  ix)und  as  if  to  go  away ; 
but  the  man  knew  him  by  this  time,  and  knew  he 
wouldn't. 

"  Oh,  I   beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  as 
!f  a  thought  had  suddenly  descended  on  him.     **  Is  tbe-_ 
young  woman  at  home  ?  " 

The  man  would  rather  think  she  was,  but  wouldn't 
quite  know.  Then  he  would  ring  a  bell  that  rang  up- 
•tair$,  and  would  look  up  the  staircase,  and  would  say, 
fea  she  toot   at   home,  and  was  coming   down,      rhcn 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  139 

Miss  Nipper  would  appear,  and  the  man  would  re» 
tire. 

"  Oh  !  How  de  do  ?  "  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  with  a 
chuckle  and  a  blush. 

Susan  would  thank  him,  and  say  she  was  very  well 

"  How's  Diogenes  going  on  ? "  would  be  Mr.  Toots's 
second  interrogation. 

Very  well  indeed.  Miss  Florence  was  fonder  and 
fonder  of  him  every  day.  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  haiJ 
this  with  a  burst  of  chuckles,  like  the  opening  of  a 
bottle  of  some  effervescent  beverage. 

"  Miss  Florence  is  quite  well,  sir,"  Susan  would  add 

"  Oil,  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank'ee,"  was  the  in- 
variable reply  of  'Mv.  Toots  ;  and  when  he  had  said  so, 
he  alwaj's  went  away  very  fast. 

Now  it  is  certain  that  Mr.  Tootrf  had  a  filmy  some- 
thing in  his  mind,  which  led  him  to  conclude  that  if  he 
could  aspire  successfully  in  the  fulness  of  time,  to  the 
hand  of  Florence,  he  would  be  fortunate  and  blest.  It 
is  certain  that  Mr.  Toots,  by  some  remote  and  round- 
about road,  had  got  to  that  point,  and  that  there  he 
made  a  stand.  His  heart  was  wounded ;  he  was 
touched  ;  he  was  in  love.  He  had  made  a  desperate 
attempt,  one  night,  and  had  sat  up  all  night  for  the 
purpose,  to  write  an  acrostic  on  Florence,  which  affected 
him  to  tears  in  the  conception.  But  he  never  proceeded 
in  the  execution  further  than  the  words,  "  For  when  1 
gaze  "  —  the  flow  of  imagination  in  which  he  had  pie- 
viously  written  down  the  initial  letters  cf  the  otheT 
seven  lines,  deserting  him  at  that    point. 

Beyond  devising  that  very  artful  and  politic  measure 
>f  leaving  a  card  for  Mr.  Dombey  daily,  the  brain  of 
Mr.  Toots  had  rot  work*  d  much  in  reference  to  the 


140  DOJIBEY  AND  SOJf. 

subject  that  held  his  feelings  piTsoner.  But  deep  con- 
Bideration  at  lengtli  assured  Mr.  Toots  that  an  important 
Btep  to  gain,  was  the  conciliation  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper 
preparatory  to  giving  her  some  inkling  of  his  state  of 
mind. 

A  little  light  and  playful  gallantly  towards  this  lady 
teemed  the  means  to  employ  in  that  early  chapter  of  the 
history,  for  winning  her  to  his  interests.  Not  being  able 
quite  to  make  up  his  mind  about  it,  he  consulted  tha 
Chicken  ■ —  without  taking  that  gentleman  into  his  con- 
fidence ;  merely  informing  him  that  a  friend  in  York* 
shire  had  written  to  him  (Mr.  Toots)  for  his  opinion  on 
such  a  question.  The  Chicken  replying  that  his  opinion 
always  was,  "Go  in  and  win,"  and  further,  "When  your 
man's  before  you  and  your  work  cut  out,  go  in  and  do 
it,"  Mr.  Toots  considered  this  a  figurative  way  of  sup- 
poriing  his  own  view  of  the  case,  and  heroically  resolved 
to  kiss  JVliss  Nipper  next  day. 

Upon  the  next  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Toots,  putting  into 
requisition  some  of  the  greatest  marvels  that  Burgess 
and  Co.  had  ever  turned  out,  went  otf  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
upon  this  design.  But  his  heart  failed  him  so  much  as 
he  approached  the  scene  of  action,  that,  although  he 
arrived  on  the  ground  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
it  was  six  before  he  knocked  at  the  door. 

Eveiything  happened  as  usual,  down  to  the  point 
when  Susan  said  her  young  mistress  was  well,  and  Mr. 
Toots  said  it  was  of  no  consequence.  To  her  amaze- 
ment, Mr.  Toots,  instead  of  going  oflf  like  a  rocket,  after 
that  observation,  lingenjd  and  chuckled. 

"Perhaps  you'd  like  to  walk  up-stairs,  sir?"  saiif 
Busan. 

"Well  I  think  I  will  come  in!"  said  Mr.  Toot». 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  141 

But  instead  of  walking  up-stairs,  the  bold  Toots  made 
an  awkward  plunge  at  Susan  when  the  door  was  shut, 
and  embracing  that  fair  creature,  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek. 

"  Go  along  with  you  !  "  cried  Susan,  "  or  I'll  tear  yotir 
eyes  out."  ■.  -sJ/inilj  ,on  ^ 

"  Just  another  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Go  along  with  you  !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  g\\  ing  him 
a  push.  "  Innocents  like  you,  too  !  Who'll  begin  next  ? 
Go  along,  sir !  " 

Susan  was  not  in  any  serious  strait,  for  she  could 
hardly  speak  for  laughing ;  but  Diogenes,  on  the  stair- 
rase,  hearing  a  rustling  against  the  wall,  and  a  shuffling 
of"  feet,  and  seeing  through  the  banisters  that  there  was 
some  contention  going  on,  and  foreign  invasion  in  the 
house,  formed  a  different  opinion,  dashed  down  to  the 
rescue,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  had  Mr.  Toots  by 
the  leg. 

Susan  screamed,  laughed,  opened  the  street-door,  and 
ran  down-stairs ;  the  bold  Toots  tumbled  staggering  out 
into  the  street,  with  Diogenes  holding  on  to  one  leg  of 
his  pantaloons,  as  if  Burgess  and  Co.  were  his  cooks, 
and  had  provided  "that  dainty  morsel  for  his  holiday  en- 
tertainment ;  Diogenes  shaken  off",  rolled  over  and  over 
in  the  dust,  got  up  again,  whirled  round  the  giddy  Toota 
and  snapped  at  him:  and  all  this  turmoil,  Mr.  Carker, 
reining  up  his  horse  and  sitting  a  little  at  a  distance,  saw, 
to  his  amazement,  issue  from  the  stately  house  of  Mr. 
Dombdy. 

Mr.  Carker  remained  watching  the  discomfited  Toots, 
when  Diogenes  was  called  in,  and  the  door  shut:  and 
while  that  gentleman,  taking  refuge  in  a  door-way  near 
\t  hand,  bound  up  the  torn  leg  of  his  pantaloons  with  a 


142  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

costly  silk  haDdkerchief  that  bad  formed  j.art  of  his  ex- 
pensive outfit  for  the  adventure. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  riding  up^ 
with  his  most  propitiatory  smile.  "  I  hope  you  are  not 
hurt  ?  " 

"  Ob  no,  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  raising  his 
flushed  face,  "  it's  of  no  consequence."  Mr.  Toots  would 
have  signified,  if  he  could,  that  he  liked  it  very  much. 

"  If  the  dog's  teeth  have  entered  the  leg,  sir  "  —  be- 
gan Carker,  with  a  display  of  his  own. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  all  quite  right 
It's  very  comfortable,  thank  you." 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey,'*  ob- 
served Carker. 

"  Have  you  though  ?  "  rejoined  the  blushing  Toots. 

"  And  you  will  allow  me,  perhaps,  to  apologize,  in  his 
absence,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  off  his  hat,  "  for  such 
a  misadventure,  and  to  wonder  how  it  can  possibly  have 
happened." 

Mr.  Toots  is  so  much  gratified  by  this  politeness,  and 
the  lucky  chance  of  making  friends  with  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  that  he  pulls  out  his  card-case,  whi':;h  he  never 
loses  an  opportunity  of  using,  and  hands  his  name  and 
address  to  Mr.  Carker:  who  responds  to  that  courtesy 
by  giving  him  his  own,  and  with  that  they  part. 

As  Mr.  Carker  picks  his  way  so  softly  past  the  house, 
glancing  up  at  the  windows,  and  trying  to  make  out  the 
pensive  face  behind  the  curtain  looking  at  the  children 
opposite,  the  rough  head  of  Diogenes  came  clambering 
op  close  by  it,  and  the  dog,  regardless  of  all  soothing, 
haika  and  growls,  and  makes  at  him  from  that  height, 
as  if  he  would  spring  down  and  tear  him  limb  frtta 
Umb. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  143 

Well  spoken,  Di,  so  near  your  mistress !  Another, 
and  another  with  your  head  up,  your  eyes  flashing,  and 
your  vexed  mouth  worrying  itself,  for  want  of  him ! 
Another,  as  he  picks  his  way  along !  You  have  a  gco3 
goent,  Di,  —  cats,  boy,  cats  ! 


144  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER    XXiIL 

FLORENCE   SOLITARY,  AXD  THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MY8TERI0U8. 

Florence  lived  alone  in  the  great  dreary  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone ;  and  the 
blank  walls  looked  down  npon  her  with  a  vacant  stare, 
as  if  they  had  a  Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth 
and  beauty  into  stone. 

No  magic  dwelling-place  in  magic  story,  shut  up  in 
the  heart  of  a  thick  wood,  was  ever  more  solitary  and 
deserted  to  the  fancy,  than  was  her  father's  mansion  in 
its  grim  reality,  as  it  stood  lowering  on  the  street :  al- 
ways by  night,  when  lights  were  shining  from  neighbor- 
ing windows,  a  blot  upon  its  scanty  brightness ;  always 
by  day,  a  frown  upon  its  never-smiling  face. 

There  were  not  two  dragon  sentries  keeping  ward 
before  the  gate  of  this  abode,  as  in  magic  legend  are 
usually  found  on  duty  over  the  wronged  innocence  im- 
prisoned ;  but  besides  a  glowering  visage,  with  its  thin 
lips  parted  wickedly,  that  surveyed  all  comers  from 
above  the  archway  of  the  door,  there  was  a  monstrous 
fantasy  of  rusty  iron  curling  and  twisting  like  a  petri- 
faction of  an  arbor  over  the  threshold,  budding  in  spikes 
and  corkscrew  points,  and  bearing,  one  on  either  side 
two  ominous  extinguishers,  that  seemed  to  say,  "  Who 
enter  here,  leave  light  behind  !  "  There  were  no  talis- 
manic  characters  engraven  on  the  portal,  but  the  house 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  145 

was  now  so  neglected  in  ajipearance,  that  boys  chalked 
the  railings  and  the  pavement  —  particularly  round  the 
corner  where  the  side  wall  was — and  drew  ghosts  on 
the  stable-door ;  and  being  sometimes  driven  ofif  by  Mr. 
Towlinson,  made  portraits  of  him,  in  return,  with  his  ears 
growing  out  horizontally  from  under  his  hat.  Noise 
(•eased  to  be,  within  the  t-hadow  of  the  roof.  The  brass 
baud  that  came  into  the  street  once  a  week,  in  the  morn- 
ing, never  brayed  a  note  in  at  those  windows ;  but  all 
sucli  company,  down  to  a  poor  little  piping  organ  of  weak 
intellect,  with  an  imbecile  larty  of  automaton  dancers, 
waltzing  in  and  out  at  folding-doors,  fell  off  from  it  with 
one  accord,  and  shunned  it  as  a  hopeless  place. 

The  spell  upon  it  was  more  wasting  than  the  spell 
that  used  to  set  enchanted  houses  sleeping  once  upon  a 
time,  but  left  their  waking  freshness  unimpaired. 

The  passive  desolation  of  disuse  was  everywhere 
silently  manifest  about  it.  Within  doors,  curtains, 
drooping  heavily,  lost  their  old  folds  and  shapes,  and 
hung  like  cumbrous  palls.  Hecatombs  of  furniture,  still 
piled  and  covered  up,  shrunk  like  imprisoned  and  for- 
gotten men,  and  changed  insensibly.  Mirrors  were  dim 
as  with  the  breath  of  years.  Patterns  of  carpets  faded 
and  became  perplexed  and  faint,  like  the  memory  of 
those  years'  trifling  incidents.  Boards,  starting  at  un- 
wonted footsteps,  creaked  and  shook.  Keys  rusted  in 
the  locks  of  doors.  Damp  started  on  the  walls,  and  as 
the  stains  came  out,  the  pictures  seemed  to  go  in  and 
secrete  themselves.  Mildew  and  mould  began  to  lurk  in 
closets.  Fungus  trees  grew  in  comers  of  the  cellars. 
Dust  accumulated,  nobody  knew  whence  nor  how;  spi- 
ders, moths,  and  grubs  were  heard  of  every  day.  An 
exploratory    black-beetle  now   and   then  was  found  ini' 

VOL.  II.  10 


146  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

movable  upon  the  stairs,  or  in  an  upper  room,  as  won- 
dering how  he  got  there.  Rats  began  to  squeak  and 
scuflle  in  the  night-time,  through  dark  galleries  they 
mined  behind  the  panelling. 

The  dreary  magnificence  of  the  state  rooms,  seen  im 
pedectly  by  the  doubtful  light  admitted  through  closed 
shutters,  would  have  answered  well  enough  for  an  en- 
chanted abode.  Such  as  the  tarnished  paws  of  gilded 
lions,  stealthily  put  out  from  beneath  their  wrappers; 
the  marble  lineaments  of  busts  on  pedestals,  fearfully 
revealing  themselves  through  veils ;  the  clocks  that 
never  told  the  time,  or,  if  wound  up  by  any  chance, 
told  it  wrong,  and  struck  unearthly  numbers,  which  are 
not  upon  the  dial ;  the  accidental  tinklings  among  the 
pendant  lustres,  more  startling  than  alarm-bells ;  the 
lioftened  sounds  and  laggard  air  that  made  their  way 
among  these  objects,  and  a  phantom  crowd  of  others, 
shrouded  and  hooded,  and  made  spectral  of  shape.  But, 
besides,  there  was  the  great  staircase,  where  the  lord  of 
the  place  so  rarely  set  his  foot,  and  by  which  his  little 
child  had  gone  up  to  Heaven.  There  were  other  stair- 
cases and  passages  where  no  one  went  for  weeks  to- 
gether ;  there  were  two  closed  rooms  associated  with 
dead  members  of  the  family,  and  with  whispered  recol- 
lections of  them  ;  and  to  all  the  house  but  Florence, 
there  was  a  gentle  figure  moving  through  the  solitude 
and  gloom,  that  gave  to  every  lifeless  thing  a  touch  of 
present  human  interest  and  wonder. 

For  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the 
cold  walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare, 
as  if  they  had  a  Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youlb 
»nd  beauty  into  stone. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  147 

The  grass  began  to  grow  upon  the  roof,  and  in  the 
rrevices  of  the  basement  paving.  A  scaly  crumbling 
vegetation  sprouted  round  the  window-sills.  Frngtncnta 
of  mortar  lost  their  hold  upon  the  insides  of  the  unused 
chimneys,  and  came  dropping  down.  The  two  trees  with 
ihe  smoky  trunks  were  blighted  high  up,  and  the  with 
fred  branches  domineered  al)ove  the  leaves.  Through 
the  whole  building,  white  had  turned  yellow,  yellow 
nearly  black ;  and  since  the  time  when  the  poor  lady 
ilied,  it  had  slowly  become  a  darK  gap  in  the  long  mo- 
notonous street. 

But  Florence  bloomed  there,  like  the  king's  fair 
daughter  in  the  story.  Her  books,  her  music,  and  her 
daily  teachers,  were  hec  only  real  companions,  Susan 
Nipper  and  Diogenes  excepted:  of  whom  the  former, 
in  her  attendance  on  the  studies  of  her  young  mistress, 
began  to  grow  quite  learned  herself,  while  the  latter, 
softened  possibly  by  the  same  influences,  would  lay  his 
head  upon  the  window-ledge,  and  placidly  open  and  shut 
his  eyes  upon  the  street,  all  through  a  summer  morning; 
riometimes  pricking  up  his  head  to  look  with  great  sig- 
nificance after  some  noisy  dog  in  a  cart,  who  was  bark- 
ing his  way  along,  and  sometimes,  with  an  exasperated 
and  unaccountable  recollection  of  his  supposed  enemy 
iu  the  neighborhood,  rushing  to  the  door,  whence  after 
a  deafening  disturbance,  he  would  come  jogging  back 
with  a  ridiculous  complacency  that  belonged  to  him,  and 
\ay  his  jaw  upon  the  window-ledge  again,  with  the  air 
♦f  a  dog  who  had  done  a  public  service. 

So  Florence  lived  in  her  wilderness  of  a  home,  withit 
the  circle  of  her  innocent  pursuits  and  thoughts,  and 
aothing  harmed  her.  She  could  go  down  to  her  father'^ 
rooms  now,  ard  think  of  him,  and  suffer  her  loving  heart 


148  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

humbly  to  approach  him,  without  fear  of  repulse.  She 
:x>ul(l  look  upon  the  objects  that  had  surrounded  him 
in  his  sorrow,  and  could  nestle  near  his  chair,  and  not 
dread  the  glance  that  she  so  well  remembered.  She 
could  render  him  such  little  tokens  of  her  duty  and 
service,  as  putting  everything  in  order  for  him  with  her 
own  hands,  binding  little  nosegays  for  his  table,  chang- 
ing them  as  one  by  one  they  withered  and  he  did  not 
come  back,  preparing  something  for  him  every  day,  and 
leaving  some  timid  mark  of  her  presence  near  his  usual 
seat.  To-day  it  was  a  little  painted  stand  for  his  watch ; 
to-morrow  she  would  be  afraid  to  leave  it,  and  would 
^substitute  some  other  trifle  of  her  making  not  so  likely 
to  attract  his  eye.  Waking  in  the  night,  perhaps,  she 
would  tremble  at  the  thought  of  his  coming  home  and 
angrily  rejecting  it,  and  would  hurry  down  with  slippered 
feet  and  quickly  beating  heart,  and  bring  it  away.  At 
another  time,  she  would  only  lay  her  face  upon  his  desk, 
and  leave  a  kiss   there,  and  a  tear. 

Still  no  one  knew  of  this.  Unless  the  household  found 
it  out  when  she  was  not  there  —  and  they  all  held 
Mr.  Dombey's  rooms  in  awe  —  it  was  as  deep  a  secret 
in  her  breast  as  what  had  gone  before  it.  Florence 
stole  into  those  rooms  at  twilight,  early  in  the  morning, 
and  at  times  when  meals  were  served  down-staii"s.  And 
although  they  were  in  every  nook  the  better  and  the 
brighter  for  her  care,  she  entered  and  passed  out  as 
quietly  ^  any  sunbeam,  excepting  that  she  left  her  light 
behind. 

Shadowy  company  attended  Florence  up  and  down 
the  echoing  house,  and  sat  with  her  in  the  dismantled 
rooms.  As  if  her  life  were  an  enchanted  vision,  there 
arose  out  of  her  solitude  ministering  thoughts,  that  made 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  149 

h  fanciful  and  unreal.  She  imagined  so  often  ■what  her 
life  would  have  been  if  her  father  could  have  loved  her 
and  she  had  been  a  favorite  child,  that  sometimes,  for  the 
moment,  she  almost  believed  it  was  so,  and,  borne  on  by 
the  current  of  that  pensive  fiction,  seemed  to  remember 
how  they  had  watched  her  brother  in  his  grave  together; 
how  they  had  freely  shared  his  heart  between  them  ;  how 
they  were  united  in  the  dear  remembrance  of  him  ;  how 
thej  often  spoke  about  him  yet ;  and  her  kind  father, 
looking  at  her  gently,  told  her  of  their  common  hope  and 
trust  in  God,  At  other  times  she  pictured  to  herself  her 
mother  yet  alive.  And  oh  the  happiness  of  falling  on 
her  neck,  and  clinging  to  her  with  the  love  and  confi- 
dence of  all  her  soul !  And  oh  the  desolation  of  the 
solitary  house  again,  with  evening  coming  on,  and  no  one 
there ! 

But  there  was  one  thoughr,  scarcely  shaped  out  to 
herself,  yet  fervent  and  strong  within  her,  that  upheld 
Florence  when  she  strove,  and  filled  her  true  young 
heart,  so  sorely  tried,  with  constancy  of  purpose.  Into 
her  mind,  as  into  all  others  contending  with  the  great 
afiliction  of  our  mortal  nature,  there  had  stolen  solemn 
wonderings  and  hopes,  arising  in  the  dim  world  beyond 
the  present  life,  and  murmuring,  like  faint  music,  of  rec- 
ognition in  the  far-off  land  between  her  brother  and  her 
mother :  of  some  present  consciousness  in  both  of  her : 
some  love  and  commiseration  for  her :  and  some  knowl- 
edge of  her  as  she  went  her  way  upon  the  earth.  It 
was  a  soothing  consolation  to  Florence  to  give  shelter 
to  these  thoughts,  until  one  day  —  it  was  soon  after  she 
liad  last  seen  her  father  in  his  own  room,  late  at  night  — 
the  fancy  came  upon  her,  that,  in  weeping  for  his  alien- 
ated heart,  she  might  stir  the  spirits  of  the  dead  againsf 


150  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

him.  Wild,  weak,  childish,  as  it  may  have  been  to  think 
so,  and  to  tremble  at  the  half-formed  thought,  it  was  the 
impulse  of  her  loving  nature  ;  and  from  that  hour  Flor- 
ence strove  against  the  cruel  wound  in  her  breast,  and 
tried  to  think  of  him  whose  hand  had  made  it  only  with 
liope. 

Her  father  did  not  know  —  she  held  to  it  from  that 
time  —  how  much  she  loved  him.  She  was  very  young, 
and  had  no  mother,  and  had  never  learned,  by  some 
fault  or  misfortune,  how  to  express  to  him- that  she  loved 
him.  She  would  be  patient,  and  would  try  to  gain  that 
art  in  time,  and  win  him  to  a  better  knowledge  of  his 
only  child. 

This  became  the  purpose  of  her  life.  The  morning 
sun  shone  down  upon  the  faded  house,  and  found  the 
resolution  bright  and  fresh  within  the  bosom  of  its  sol- 
itary mistress.  Through  all  the  duties  of  the  day,  it 
animated  her ;  for  Florence  hoped  that  the  more  she 
knew,  and  the  more  accomplished  she  became,  the  more 
glad  he  would  be  when  he  came  to  know  and  like  her. 
Sometimes  she  wondered,  with  a  swelling  heart  and 
rising  tear,  whether  she  was  proficient  enough  in  any- 
thing to  surprise  him  when  they  should  become  com- 
panions. Sometimes  she  tried  to  think  if  there  were 
any  kind  of  knowledge  that  would  bespeak  his  interest 
more  readily  than  another.  Always :  at  her  books,  her 
music,  and  her  work  :  in  her  morning  walks,  and  in  her 
nightly  prayers :  she  had  her  engrossing  aim  in  view. . 
Strange  study  for  a  child,  to  learn  the  road  to  a  hard 
parent's  heaH ! 

There  were  many  careless  loungers  through  the  street, 
IS  the  summer  evening  deepened  into  aight,  who  glanced 
across  the  road  at  the  sombre  house,  and  saw  the  youth 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  181 

ful  figure  at  the  window,  such  a  contra.^t  to  it,  looking 
upward  at  the  stars  as  they  began  to  shine,  who  would 
have  slept  the  worse  if  they  had  known  on  what  design 
ehe  mused  so  steadfastly.  The  reputation  of  the  man- 
sion as  a  haunted  house,  would  not  have  been  the  gayer 
with  some  humble  dwellers  elsewhere,  who  were  struck 
by  its  external  gloom  in  passing  and  repassing  on  their 
daily  avocations,  and  so  named  it,  if  they  could  have 
read  its  story  in  the  darkening  face.  But  Florence 
held  her  sacred  purpose,  unsuspected  and  unaided :  and 
studied  only  how  to  bring  her  father  to  the  understand- 
ing that  she  loved  him,  and  made  no  appeal  against  him 
in  any  wandering  thought. 

Thus  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the 
monotonous  walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  stare, 
as  if  they  had  a  Gorgon-like  intent  to  stare  her  youth 
and  beauty  into  stone. 

Susun  Nipper  stood  opposite  to  her  young  mistress  one 
morning,  as  she  folded  and  sealed  a  note  she  had  been 
writing :  and  showed  in  her  looks  an  approving  knowl 
edge  of  its  contents. 

"  Better  late  than  never,  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan 
"  and  I  do  say,  that  even  a  visit  to  them  old  Skettleses 
will  be  a  Godsend." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles, 
Susan,"  returned  Florence,  with  a  mild  correction  of 
that  young  lady's  familiar  mention  of  the  family  in  quea- 
lion,  "  to  repeat  their  invitation  so  kindly." 

Miss  Nipper,  who  was  perhaps  the  most  thorougi- 
going  partisan  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  who  carried 
her  partisanship  into  all  matters  great  or  small,  and  per- 
petually waged  war  with  it  against  society,  screwed  uj 


152  DOMBEY  AND  SON.  / 

her  lips  and  shook  her  head,  as  a  protest  against  any 
recognition  of  disinterestedness  in  the  Skettleses,  and  a 
plea  in  bar  that  they  would  have  valuable  consideration 
for  their  kindness  in  the  company  of  Florence. 

"  They  know  what  they're  about,  if  ever  people  did," 
murmured  Miss  Nipper,  drawing  in  her  breath,  "  oh ! 
trust  them  Skettleses  for  that ! " 

"  I  am  not  very  anxious  to  go  to  Fulham,  Susan,  I 
confess,"  said  Florence  thoughtfully ;  *'  but  it  will  be 
right  to  go.     I  think  it  will  be  better." 

"  Much  better,"  interposed  Susan,  with  another  em- 
phatic shake  of  her  head. 

"  And  so,"  said  Florence,  "  though  I  would  prefer  to 
have  gone  when  there  was  no  one  there,  instead  of  in 
this  vacation  time,  when  it  seems  there  are  some  young 
people  staying  in  the  house,  I  have  thankfully  said  yes." 

"  For  which  /  say.  Miss  Floy,  Oh  be  joyful  1 "  re- 
turned Susan.     "  Ah  !  h— h ! " 

This  last  ejaculation,  with  which  Miss  Nipper  fre- 
quently wound  up  a  sentence,  at  aboui  that  epoch  of 
time,  was  supposed  below  the  level  of  the  hall  to  have  a 
general  reference  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  to  be  expressive 
of  a  yearning  in  Miss  Nipper  to  favor  that  gentleman 
with  a  piece  of  her  mind.  But  she  never  explained  it , 
and  it  had,  in  consequence,  the  charm  of  mystery,  in 
addition  to  the  advantage  of  the  sharpest  expression. 

"  How  long  it  is  before  we  have  any  news  of  Walter 
Susan  !  "  observed  Florence,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Long  indeed.  Miss  Floy  !  "  replied  her  maid.  "  And 
Perch  said,  when  he  came  just  now  to  see  for  letters  — ■ 
but  what  signifies  what  he  says ! "  exclaimed  Susan, 
reddening  and  breaking  off.  "  Much  he  knows  about 
It!" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  153 

Florence  raised  her  eyes  quickly,  and  a  flush  ovei^ 
ipread  lier  face. 

"  If  I  hadn't,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  evidt-ntly  struggling 
with  some  latent  anxiety  and  alarm,  and  looking  full  at 
her  young  mistress,  while  endeavoring  to  work  herself 
into  a  state  of  resentment  with  tlie  unoffending  Mr 
Perch's  image,  "if  I  hadn't  more  manliness  than  that 
insipidest  of  his  sex,  I'd  never  take  pride  in  my  hair 
again,  but  turn  it  up  behind  my  ears,  and  wear  coarse 
caps,  without  a  bit  of  border,  until  death  released  me 
from  ray  insignificance,  I  may  not  be  a  Amazon,  Miss 
Floy,  and  wouldn't  so  demean  myself  by  such  disfigure- 
ment, but  anyways  I'm  not  a  giver  up,  I  hope." 

"  Give  up!  What?"  cried  Florence,  with  a  face  of 
terror. 

"  Why,  nothing,  miss,"  said  Susan.  "  Good  gracious, 
nothing!  It's  only  that  wet  curl-paper  of  a  man  Perch, 
that  any  one  might  almost  make  away  with,  with  a 
touch,  and  really  it  would  be  a  blessed  event  for  all 
parties  if  some  one  would  take  pity  on  him,  and  would 
have  the  goodness ! " 

"  Does  he  give  up  the  ship,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Flor- 
ence, \&ry  pale. 

"  No,  miss,"  returned  Susan,  "  I  should  like  to  see 
him  make  so  bold  as  do  it  to  my  face !  No,  miss,  but  he 
goes  on  about  some  bothering  ginger  that  Mr-  Walter 
was  to  send  to  Mrs.  Perch,  and  shakes  his  dismal  head, 
and  says  he  hopes  it  may  be  coming ;  anyhow,  he  says, 
it  can't  come  now  in  time  for  the  intended  occasion, 
but  may  do  for  next,  which  really,"  said  Miss  Nipper, 
vith  aggravated  scorn,  '•  puts  me  out  of  patience  with 
the  hjan,  for  though  1  can  bear  a  great  deal,  I  am 
oot  a  camol,  neither  am  I,"  added  Susan,  after  a  mo- 


!54  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

ment's  ojnsideration,  "if  I  know  myself,  a  dromedary 
neither." 

"  What  else  does  he  say,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Florence) 
earnestly.     "  "Won't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  As  if  I  wouldn't  tell  you  anything,  Miss  Floy,  and 
everything!"  said  Susan.  "Why  miss,  he  says  that 
there  begins  to  be  a  general  talk  about  the  ship,  and 
that  they  have  never  had  a  ship  on  that  voyage  half  so 
long  unheard  of,  and  that  the  captain's  wife  was  at  the 
office  yesterday,  and  seemed  a  little  put  out  about  it,  but 
any  one  could  say  that,  we  knew  nearly  that  before." 

"  I  must  visit  Walter's  uncle,"  said  Florence,  hur- 
riedly, "  before  1  leave  home.  I  will  go  and  see  him 
this  morning."    Let  us  walk  there  directly,  Susan." 

Miss  Nipper  having  nothing  to  urge  against  the  pro- 
posal, but  being  perfectly  acquiescent,  they  were  soon 
equipped,  and  in  the  streets,  and  on  their  way  towards 
the  little  Midshipman. 

The  state  of  mind  in  which  poor  Walter  had  gone  to 
Captain  Cuttle's,  on  the  day  when  Brogley  the  broker 
came  into  possession,  and  when  there  seemed  to  him  to 
be  an  execution  in  the  very  steeples,  was  pretty  much 
the  same  as  that  in  which  Florence  now  took  her  way 
to  Uncle  Sol's ;  with  this  difference,  that  Florence  suf- 
fered the  added  pain  of  thinking  that  she  had  been,  per- 
hapr.,  the  innocent  occasion  of  involving  Walter  in  peril, 
and  all  to  whom  he  was  dear,  herself  included,  in  an 
agony  of  suspense.  For  the  rest,  uncertainty  and  dan'»-_ 
Ijer  seemed  written  upon  everything.  The  weathercocks 
on  spires  and  house-tops  were  mysterious  with  hints  of 
stormy  wind,  and  pointed,  like  so  many  ghostly  fingers, 
out  to  dangerous  seas,  where  fragments  of  great  wrecks 
were  di-ifting,  perhaps,  and  helpless  men   were  rocked 


DOMbKY  AND  SON.  i6S 

npon  them  into  a  sleep  as  deep  as  the  unfathomable 
waters.  When  Florence  came  into  the  city,  and  passed 
gentlemen  who  were  talking  together,  she  dreaded  to 
hear  them  speaking  of  the  ship,  and  saying  it  was  lost 
Pictures  and  prints  of  vessels  fighting  with  the  rolling 
waves  filled  her  with  alarm.  The  smoke  and  cloud'i, 
though  moving  gently,  moved  too  fast  for  her  apprehei-- 
Bions,  and  made  her  fear  there  was  a  tempest  blowing  at 
that  moment  on  the  ocean. 

Susan  Nipper  may  or  may  not  have  been  affected 
Bimilarly,  but  having  her  attention  much  engaged  in 
struggles  with  boys,  whenever  there  was  any  press  of 
people  —  for,  between  that  grade  of  human  kind  and 
herself,  there  was  some  natural  animosity  that  invariably 
broke  out,  whenever  they  came  together  —  it  would 
seem  that  she  had  not  much  leisure  on  the  road  for  in- 
tellectual operations. 

Arriving  in  good  time  abreast  of  the  Wooden  Mid- 
shipman on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  and  waiting  for 
an  opportunity  to  cross  the  street,  they  were  a  little  sur 
prised  at  first  to  see,  at  the  Instrument-maker's  door,  a 
round-headed  lad,  with  his  chubby  face  addressed  tow- 
ards the  sky,  who,  as  they  looked  at  him,  suddenly  thrust 
into  his  capacious  mouth  two  fingers  of  each  hand,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  that  machinery  whistled,  with 
nstenishing  shrillness,  to  some  pigeons  at  a  considerable 
elevation  in  the  air. 

"  Mrs.  Richards's  eldest,  miss  !  "  said  Susan,  "and  the 
ivoi'rit  of  INIrs.  Richards's  life  !  " 

As  Polly  had  been  to  tell  Florence  of  the  resuscitated 
prospects  of  her  son  and  neir,  Florence  was  prepared  for 
the  meeting :  so,  a  favorable  moment  presenting  itself, 
they  both  hastened  across,  without  any  further  contem 


C66  DOJTBEY   AND   SON. 

plation  of  Mrs  Richards's  bane.  That  sporting  charac- 
ter, unconscious  of  their  approach,  again  whistled  with 
his  utmost  might,  and  then  yelled  in  a  rapture  of  excite- 
ment, "Strays !  Whoo-oopl  Strays!"  which  identifica- 
tion had  such  an  effect  upon  the  conscience-stricken 
pigetns,  that  instead  of  going  direct  to  some  town  in  the 
north  of  England,  as  appeai-ed  to  have  been  their  orig- 
inal intention,  they  began  to  wheel  and  falter;  where- 
upon i\Ii-s.  Richards's  first-born  pierced  them  with  another 
whistle,  and  again  yelled,  in  a  voice  that  rose  above  the 
turmoil  of  the  street,  "  Strays  !  Whoo-oop !  Strays !  " 

From  this  transport,  he  was  abruptly  recalled  to  ter- 
restrial objects,  by  a  poke  from  Miss  Nipper,  which  sent 
him  into  the  shop. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  show  your  penitence,  when  Mrs. 
Richards  has  been  fretting  for  you  months  and  months ! " 
said  Susan,  following  the  poke.     "  Where's  Mr.  Gills  ?  " 

Rob,  who  smoothed  his  first  rebellious  glance  at  Miss 
Nipper  when  he  saw  Florence  following,  put  his  knuckles 
to  his  hair,  in  honor  of  the  latter,  and  said  to  the  former, 
that  Mr.  Gills  was  out. 

"  Fetch  him  home,"  said  Miss  Nipper,  with  authority, 
"  and  say  that  my  young  lady's  here." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he's  gone,"  said  Rob. 

"  Is  that  your  penitence  ?  "  cried  Susan,  with  stinging 
sharpness.  — 

"  Why  how  can  I  go  and  fetch  him  when  I  don't  know 
where  to  go  ?  "  whimpered  the  baited  Rob.     "  How  caxf^ 
you  be  so  unreasonable  ?  " 

"  Did  Mr.  Gills  say  when  he  should  be  home  ?  "  asked 
Florence. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  replied  Rob,  with  another  application  of 
hip  knuckles  to  his  hair.     "  He  said  he  should  be  home 


DOMBEY  AND  SOX.  157 

early  in  the  afternoon;  in  about  a  couple  of  hours  from 
now,  miss." 

•*  Is  he  very  anxious  about  his  nephew  ? "  inquired 
Susan. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  returned  Rob,  preferring  to  address  him* 
self  to  Florence  and  slighting  Nipper  ;  "  I  should  say  be 
was,  very  much  so.  He  a'n't  in-doors,  miss,  not  a  qiarter 
of  an  hour  together.  He  can't  settle  in  one  place  five 
minutes.  He  goes  about,  hke  a — just  like  a  stray," 
said  Rob,  stooping  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  pigpons 
through  the  window,  and  checking  himself,  with  his 
fingers  half-way  to  his  mouth,  on  the  verge  of  another 
whistle. 

"  Do  you  know  a  friend  of  Mr.  Gills,  called  Captain 
Cuttle  ?  "  inquired  Florence,  after  a  moment's  reflection. 

"Him  with  a  hook,  miss?"  rejoined  Rob,  with  an 
illustrative  twist  of  his  left  hand.  "  Yes,  miss.  He  was 
here  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  Has  he  not  been  here  since  ?  "  asked  Susan. 

"  No,  miss,"  returned  Rob,  still  addressing  his  reply  to 
Florence. 

"  Perhaps  Walter's  uncle  has  gone  there,  Susan,"  ob- 
served Florence,  turning  to  her. 

'•To  Captain  Cuttle's,  miss?"  interposed  Rob,  "noi, 
he's  not  gone  there,  miss.  Because  he  left  i)articular 
word  that  if  Captain  Cuttle  called,  I  should  tell  hira  how 
Eurprised  he  was,  not  to  have  seen  him  yesterday,  and 
should  make  him  stop  'till  he  came  back." 

"  Do  you  know  where  Captain  Cuttle  lives  ?  "  asked 
Florence. 

Rob  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  turnmg  to  a  greasy 
parchment  book  on  the  shop-desk,  read  the  address  aloud. 

Florence  asain  turned  to  her  maid  and  took  counsel 


158  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

with  her  in  a  low  voice,  while  Rob  the  round-eyed, 
mindful  of  his  patron's  secret  charge,  looked  on  and  lis- 
tened. Florence  proposed  that  they  should  go  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle's  house ;  hear  from  his  own  lips,  what  he 
thought  of  the  absence  of  any  tidings  of  the  Son  and 
Heir ;  and  bring  him,  if  they  could,  to  comfort  Uncle 
Sol.  Susan  at  first  objected  slightly,  on  the  score  of  dis- 
tance ;  but  a  hackney-coach  being  mentioned  by  her  mis- 
tress, withdrew  that  opposition,  and  gave  in  her  assent. 
There  were  some  minutes  of  discussion  between  them 
before  they  came  to  this  conclusion,  during  which  the 
staring  Rob  paid  close  attention  to  both  speakers,  and  in- 
clined his  ear  to  each  by  turns,  as  if  he  were  appointed 
arbitrator  of  the  arguments. 

In  fine,  Rob  was  despatched  for  a  coach,  the  visitors 
keeping  shop  meanwhile  ;  and  when  he  brought  it,  they 
got  into  it,  leaving  word  for  Uncle  Sol  that  they  would 
be  sure  to  call  again,  on  their  way  back.  Rob  having 
stared  after  the  coach  until  it  was  as  invisible  as  the 
pigeons  had  now  become,  sat  down  behind  the  desk  with 
a  most  assiduous  demeanor ;  and  in  order  that  he  might 
forget  nothing  of  what  had  transpired,  made  notes  of  it 
on  various  small  scraps  of  paper,  with  a  vast  expendi- 
ture of  ink.  There  was  no  danger  of  these  documents 
betraying  anything,  if  accidentally  lost ;  for  long  before 
a  word  was  dry,  it  became  as  profound  a  mystery  to 
Rob,  as  if  he  had  had  no  part  whatever  in  its  produc- 
tion. 

While  he  was  yet  busy  with  these  labors,  the  hackney- 
coach,  after  encountering  unheard-of  difficulties  from 
swivel-bridges,  soft  roads,  impassable  canals,  caravans  of 
casks,  settlements  of  scarlet-beans  and  little  wash-houses, 
and   many  such   obstacles   abounding   in   that  country 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  169 

stopped  at  the  comer  of  Brig  Place.  Alighting  here, 
Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  walked  down  the  street,  and 
Bought  out  the  abode  of  Captain  Cuttle. 

It  happened  by  evil  chance  to  be  one  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger's  great  cleaning  days.  On  these  occasions,  Mrs. 
MacStinger  was  knocked  up  by  the  policeman  at  a  quar> 
ter  before  three  in  the  morning,  and  rarely  succumbed 
before  twelve  o'clock  next  night.  The  chief  object  of 
this  institution  appeared  to  be,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger 
should  move  all  the  furniture  into  the  back  garden  at 
early  dawn,  walk  about  the  house  in  pattens  all  day,  and 
move  the  furniture  back  again  after  dark.  These  cere- 
monies greatly  fluttered  those  doves  the  young  Mac- 
Stingers,  who  were  not  only  unable  at  such  times  to  find 
any  resting-place  for  the  soles  of  their  feet,  but  generally 
came  in  for  a  good  deal  of  pecking  from  the  maternal 
bird  during  the  progress  of  the  solemnities. 

At  the  moment  when  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  pre- 
sented themselves  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's  door,  that  worthy 
but  redoubtable  female  was  in  the  act  of  conveying 
Alexander  MacStinger,  aged  two  years  and  three  months, 
along  the  passage  for  forcible  deposition  in  a  sitting  pos- 
ture on  the  street  pavement ;  Alexander  being  black  in 
the  face  with  holding  his  breath  after  punishment,  and  a 
cool  paving-stone  being  usually  found  to  act  as  a  power- 
ful restorative  in  such  cases. 

The  feelings  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  as  a  woman  and  a 
mother,  were  outraged  by  the  look  of  pity  for  Alexander 
which  she  observed  on  Florence's  face.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
MacStinger  asserting  those  ^nest  emotions  of  our  nature, 
in  preference  to  weakly  gratifying  her  curiosity,  shook 
and  buffeted  Alexander  both  before  and  during  the  ap- 
plication of  the  paving-stone,  and  took  no  further  notice 


160  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  Florence,  when  the 
child  had  found  his  breath  again,  and  was  using  it.  "  Is 
Oiis  Captain  Cuttle's  house?" 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"  Not  Number  Nine  ?  "  asked  Florence,  hesitating. 

"  Who  said  it  wasn't  Number  Nine  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mao 
Stinger. 

Susan  Nipper  instantly  struck  in,  and  begged  to  iu- 
quire  what  Mrs.  MacStinger  meant  by  that,  and  if  she 
knew  whom  she  was  talking  to. 

Mrs.  MacStinger  in  retort,  looked  at  her  all  over. 
"  What  do  you  want  with  Captain  Cuttle,  I  should  wish 
to  know  ?  "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"  Should  you  ?  Then  I'm  sorry  that  you  won't  be  sat- 
•sfied,"  returned  Miss  Nipper. 

"  Hush,  Susan  !  If  you  please  !  "  said  Florence. 
"  Perhaps  you  can  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us  where 
Captain  Cuttle  lives,  ma'am,  as  he  don't  live  here." 

"  Who  says  he  don't  live  here  ?  "  retorted  the  impla- 
cable MacStinger.  "  I  said  it  wasn't  Cap'en  Cuttle's 
house  —  and  it  a'n't  his  house  —  and  forbid  it,  that  it 
ever  should  be  his  house  —  for  Cap'en  Cuttle  don't  know 
how  to  keep  a  house  —  and  don't  deserve  to  have  a 
house  —  it's  my  house  —  and  when  I  let  the  upper  floor 
to  Cap'en  Cuttle,  oh  I  do  a  thankless  thing,  and  c&at 
pearls  before  swine  ! " 

Mrs.  MacStinger  pitched  her  voice  for  the  upper  win 
dows  in  offering  these  remarks,  and  cracked  off  each 
clause  sharply  by  itself  as  if  from  a  rifle  possessing  an 
infiaity  of  barrels.  After  the  last  shot,  the  captain's 
voice  was  heard  to  say,  in  feeble  remonstrance  from  his 
own  room,  "  Steady  below  !  " 

**  Since  you  want  Cap'en  Cuttle,  there  he  is  1 "  said 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  161 

Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  an  angry  motion  of  her  hand 
On  Florence  making  bold  to  enter,  without  any  more 
parley,  and  on  Susan  following,  Mrs.  MacStinger  re- 
commenced her  pedestrian  exercise  in  pattens,  and  Alex- 
ander MacStinger  (still  on  the  paving-stone),  who  had 
stopped  in  his  crying  to  attend  to  the  conversation,  be* 
gan  to  wail  again,  entertaining  himself  during  that  dis- 
mal performance,  which  was  quite  mechanical,  with  a 
gjcucral  survey  of  the  prospect,  tennirtating  in  the  hack- 
ney-coach. 

The  captain  in  his  own  apartment  was  sitting  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  drawn  up  under  his 
chair,  on  a  very  small  desolate  island,  lying  about  mid- 
way in  an  ocean  of  soap  and  water.  The  captain's  win- 
dows had  been  cleaned,  the  walls  had  been  cleaned,  the 
stove  had  been  cleaned,  and  everything,  the  stove  ex- 
cepted, was  wet,  and  shining  with  soft  soap  and  sand: 
ihe  smell  of  which  dry-saltery  impregnated  the  air.  In 
the  midst  of  the  dreary  scene,  the  captain,  cast  away 
u|)on  his  island,  looked  round  on  the  waste  of  waters 
witli  a  rueful  countenance,  and  seemed  waiting  for  some 
friendly  bark  to  come  that  way,  and  take  him  off. 

But  when  the  captain,  directing  his  forlorn  visage  tow- 
ards the  door,  saw  Florence  appear  with  her  maid,  no 
words  can  describe  his  astonishment.  Mrs.  MacStinger's 
eloquence  having  rendered  all  other  sounds  but  imper- 
fectly distinguishable,  he  had  looked  for  no  rarer  visitor 
than  the  potboy  or  the  milkman  ;  wherefore,  when  Flor- 
ence appeared,  and  coming  to  the  confines  of  the  island, 
put  her  hand  in  his,  the  captain  stood  up,  aghast,  as  if 
he  supposed  her,  for  the  moment,  to  be  some  young  mem- 
ber of  the  Flying  Dutchman's  family. 

Instantly  recovering  his  self-possession,  however,  tbfi 
VOL.  n.  11 


162  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

captain's  first  care  was  to  place  her  on  drv  land,  wbiufa 
he  happily  accomplished,  with  one  motion  of  his  arm. 
Issuing  forth,  then,  upon  the  main,  Captain  Cuttle  took 
Miss  Nipper  round  the  waist,  and  bore  her  to  the  island 
also.  Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  great  respect  and  admi- 
ration, raised  tlie  hand  of  Florence  to  his  lips,  and  stand- 
ing off  a  little  (for  the  island  was  not  large  enough  for 
three),  beamed  on  her  from  the  soap  and  water  like  a, 
new  description  of  Triton. 

"  You  are  amazed  to  see  us,  I  am  sure,"  said  Florence, 
with  a  smile. 

The  inexpressibly  gratified  captain  kissed  his  hook  in 
reply,  and  growled,  as  if  a  choice  and  delicate  compli- 
ment were  included  in  the  words,  "  Stand  by !  Stand 
by!" 

"  But  I  couldn't  rest,"  said  Florence,  "  without  coming 
to  ask  you  what  you  think  about  dear  Walter  —  who  is 
my  brother,  now  —  and  whether  there  is  anything  to 
fear,  and  whether  you  will  not  go  and  console  his  poor 
uncle  every  day,  until  we  have  some  intelligence  of 
him?" 

At  these  words  Captain  Cuttle,  as  by  an  involuntary 
gesture,  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which  the  hard 
glazed  hat  was  not,  aifti  looked  discomfited. 

"  Have  you  any  fears  for  Walter's  safety  ?  "  inquired 
Florence,  from  whose  face  the  captain  (so  enraptured  he 
was  with  it)  could  not  take  his  eyes :  while  she,  in  her 
turn,  looked  earnestly  at  him,  to  be  assured  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  reply. 

"  No,  Heart's-delight,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  I  am  not 
afeard.  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as  '11  go  through  a  deal  o'  hard 
weather  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as  '11  bring  as  much  success  to 
that  'ere  brig  as  a  lad  is  capable  on.     Wal'r,"  said  thi 


DOMIiEY   AND   SON.  16& 

mptain,  Lis  eyes  glistening  with  the  praise  of  his  joung 
Friftnd,  and  his  hook  raised  to  announce  a  beautiful  quo 
lalion,  "  is  what  you  may  call  a  out'ard  and  visible  sign 
of  a  in'ard  and  spirited  grasp,  and  when  found  make  a 
lOte  of." 

Florence,  who  did  not  quite  understand  this,  thouj'h 
(lie  captain  evidently  thought  it  full  of  meaning,  and 
highly  satisfactory,  mildly  looked  to  him  for  something 
more. 

"  I  am  not  afeard,  my  Heart's-delight,"  resumed  the 
captain.*  "  There's  been  most  uncommon  bad  weather 
in  them  latitudes,  there's  no  denyin',  and  they  have 
drove  and  drove  and  been  beat  off,  maybe  t'other  side 
the  world.  But  the  ship's  a  good  ship,  and  the  lad's  a 
good  lad  ;  and  it  a'n't  easy,  thank  the  Lord,"  the  cap- 
tain made  a  little  bow,  "to  break  up  hearts  of  oak, 
whether  they're  in  brigs  or  buzzums.  Here  we  have 
'em  both  ways,  which  is  bringing  it  up  with  a  round 
turn,  and  so  I  a'n't  a  bit  afeard  as  yet." 
"As  yet?"  repeated  Florence. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  returned  the  captain,  kissing  his  iron 
hand ;  "  and  afore  I  begin  to  be,  my  Heart's-delight, 
Wal'r  will  have  wrote  home  from  the  island,  or  from 
•ome  port  or  another,  and  made  ail  taut  and  ship-shape. 
And  with  regard  to  old  Sol  Gills,"  here  the  captain 
tn  came  solemn,  "  who  I'll  stand  by,  and  not  desert  until 
death  do  us  part,  and  when  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, 
lo  blow,  do  blow  —  overhaul  the  Catechism,"  said  the 
captain  parenthetically,  "  and  there  you'll  find  them 
expressions  —  if  it  would  console  Sol  Gills  to  have  the 
ipinion  of  a  seafaring  man  as  has  got  a  mind  equal  to 
»ny  undertaking  that  he  puts  it  alongside  of,  and  as  wa« 
Ul  but  smashed  in  his  'prenticeship,  and  of  which  th« 


164  DOMbEY   AND  SON. 

name  is  Bunsby,  that  'ere  man  shall  ^ive  him  such  an 
opinion  in  his  own  parlor  as'U  stun  him.  Ah ! "  said 
Captain  Cuttle,  vauntingly,  ♦'  as  much  as  if  he'd  tcce. 
Rnd  knocked  his  head  again  a  door ! " 

"  Let  us  take  this  gentleman  to  see  him  and  lat  as 
hear  what  he  says,"  cried  Florence.  "  Will  you  go  with 
us  now  ?     We  have  a  coach  here." 

Again  the  captain  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on 
which  the  hard  glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discom- 
fited. But  at  this  instant  a  most  remarkable  phenome- 
non occurred.  The  door  opening  without  any  note  of 
preparation,  and  apparently  of  itself,  the  hard  glazed  hat 
in  question  skimmed  into  the  room  like  a  bird,  and 
alighted  heavily  at  the  captain's  feet  The  door  then 
shut  as  violently  as  it  had  opened,  and  nothing  ensued 
in  explanation  of  the  prodigy. 

Captain  Cuttle  picked  up  his  hat,  and  having  turned 
it  over  with  a  look  of  interest  and  welcome,  began  to 
polisli  it  on  his  sleeve.  While  doing  so,  the  captain 
eyp(l  his  visitors  intently,  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

*•  You  see  I  should  have  bore  down  on  Sol  Gills  yes- 
terday, and  this  morning,  but  she  —  she  took  it  away 
and  kept  it.     That's  the  long  and  short  of  the  subject.'* 

"  Who  did,  for  goodness'  sake  ?"  asked  Susan  Nipper. 

**  The  lady  of  the  house,  my  dear,"  returned  the  cap- 
tain, in  a  gruff  whisper,  and  making  signals  of  secrecy. 
"  We  had  some  words  about  the  swabbing  of  these  here 
planks,  and  she  —  in  short,"  said  the  captain,  eying  the 
door,  and  relieving  himself  with  a  long  breath,  "  she 
stopped  my  liberty." 

"  Oh  !  I  wish  she  had  me  to  deal  with ! "  said  Susan, 
re<Ulening  with  th^  energy  of  the  wish.     "  T  1  stop  her  !  " 

"Would  you,  <*o  you  think,  my  di»ar?"  rejoined  the 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  165 

captain,  shaking  his  head  doubtfully,  but  regarding  the 
desperate  courage  of  the  fair  aspirant  with  obvious  admi« 
ration.  "  I  don't  know.  It's  difficult  navigation.  She's 
very  hard  to  carry  on  with,  my  dear.  You  never  can 
tell  how  she'll  head,  you  see.  She's  full  one  minute, 
and  round  upon  you  next.  And  when  she  is  a  tartar," 
Baid  the  captain,  with  the  perspiration  breaking  out  upon 
his  forehead  —  There  was  nothing  but  a  whistle  em- 
phatic enough  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence,  so  the 
captain  whistled  tremulously.  After  which  he  again 
shook  his  head,  and  recurring  to  his  admiration  of  Miss 
dipper's  devoted  bravery,  timidly  repeated,  "  Would  you, 
do  you  think,  my  dear  ?  " 

Susan  only  replied  with  a  bridling  smile,  but  that  was 
so  very  full  of  defiance,  that  there  is  no  knowing  how 
long  Captain  Cuttle  might  have  stood  entranced  in  its 
contemplation,  if  Florence  in  her  anxiety  had  not  again 
proposed  their  immediately  resorting  to  the  oracular 
Bunsby.  Thus  reminded  of  his  duty.  Captain  Cuttle 
put  on  the  glazed  hat  firmly,  took  up  another  knobby 
stick,  with  which  he  had  supplied  the  place  of  that  one 
given  to  Walter,  and  offering  his  arm  to  Florence,  pre- 
pared to  cut  his  way  through  the  enemy. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  had 
already  changed  her  course,  and  that  she  headed,  as  the 
captain  had  remarked  she  often  did.  in  quite  a  new 
direction.  For  when  they  got  down-stairs,  they  found 
that  exemplary  woman  beating  the  mats  on  the  door- 
steps, with  Alexander,  still  upon  the  paving-stone,  dimly 
looming  through  a  fog  of  dust ;  and  so  absorbed  was 
Mis.  MacStinger  in  her  household  occupation,  that  when 
Captain  Cuttle  and  his  visitors  passed,  she  beat  the 
narder,  and   neither  by  word  nor  gesture   showed  pny 


166  DOMBEI   AND  SON. 

consciousness  of  their  vicinity.  The  capt:un  was  so  weD 
pleased  with  this  easy  escape  —  aUhough  the  effect  of 
the  door-mats  on  hira  was  like  a  copious  administration 
of  snuff,  and  made  him  sneeze  nntil  the  tears  ran  down 
his  face  —  that  he  could  hardly  believe  his  good  for- 
tcine ;  but  more  than  once,  between  the  door  and  the 
hackney-coach,  looked  over  his  shoulder,  with  an  obvi- 
ous apprehension  of  Mrs.  MacStinger*s  giving  chase  yet 

However,  they  got  to  the  corner  of  Brig  Place  with- 
out any  molestation  from  that  terrible  fire-ship  ;  and  the 
captain  mounting  the  coach-box  —  for  his  gallantry  would 
not  allow  him  to  ride  inside  with  the  ladies,  though  be- 
sought to  do  so  —  piloted  the  driver  on  his  course  for 
Captain  Bunsby's  vessel,  which  was  called  the  Cautious 
Clara,  and  was  lying  hard  by  Ratcliffe. 

Arrived  at  the  wharf  off  which  this  great  command- 
er's ship  was  jammed  in  among  some  five  hundred  com- 
panions, whose  tangled  rigging  looked  like  monstrous 
cobwebs  half  swept  do-vn.  Captain  Cuttle  appeared  at 
the  coacli-wjndow,  and  in>ited  Florence  and  Miss  NifH 
per  to  accompany  hira  on  board  ;  observing  that  Buns- 
by  was  to  the  last  degree  soft-hearted  in  respect  of 
ladies,  and  that  nothing  would  so  much  tend  to  bring 
his  expansive  intellect  into  a  state  of  harmony  as  their 
presentation  to  the  Cautious  Clara. 

Florence  readily  consented ;  and  the  captain  taking 
her  little  hand  in  his  prodigious  palm,  led  her,  with  a 
mixed  expression  of  patronage,  paternity,  pride,  an«) 
rerf-mony,  that  was  pleasant  to  see,  over  several  vi-rj 
dirty  decks,  until,  coming  to  the  Clara,  they  found  that 
cautious  craft  (which  lay  outside  the  tier)  with  her  gang- 
way removed,  and  half  a  dozen  feet  of  rivsr  interposed 
between  I>erself  and  her  nearest  neighbor.     It  appeared 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  167 

I'rora  Captain  Cuttle's  explanation,  that  the  great  Buns- 
6y,  like  himself,  was  cruelly  treated  by  his  landlady,  and 
that  when  her  usage  of  him  for  the  time  being  was  so 
hard  that  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  he  set  this  gulf 
between  them  as  a  last  resource. 

"  Clara  a-hoy  !  "  cried  the  captain,  putting  a  haud  tn 
each  side  of  his  mouth. 

"  A-hoy  ! "  cried  a  boy,  like  the  captain's  echo,  tum- 
bling up  from  below. 

"  Bunsby  aboard  ?  "  cried  the  captain,  hailing  the  boy 
in  a  sleulorian  voice,  as  if  he  were  half  a  mile  otF  instead 
of  two  yards. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  cried  the  boy,  in  the  same  tone. 

The  boy  then  shoved  out  a  plank  to  Captain  Cuttle, 
who  adjusted  it  carefully,  and  led  Florence  across:  re- 
turning presently  for  Miss  Nipper.  So  they  stood  upon 
the  deck  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  in  whose  standing  rig- 
ging, divers  fluttering  articles  of  dress  were  curing,  in 
company  with  a  few  tongues  and  some   mackerel. 

Immediately  there  appeared,  coming  slowly  up  above 
the  bulkiicad  of  the  cabin,  another  bulkhead  —  human 
and  very  large  —  with  one  stationary  eye  in  the  mahog- 
any face,  and  one  revolving  one,  on  the  jirincipal  of  some 
light-houses.  This  head  was  decorated  with  shaggy  hair, 
like  oakum,  which  had  no  governing  incHnation  towards 
the  north,  east,  west,  or  south,  but  inclined  to  all  four 
quartei's  of  the  compass,  and  to  every  point  upon  it. 
The  head  was  followed  by  a  perfect  desert  of  chin,  and 
by  a  bhirt-colUr  and  neckerchief,  and  by  a  dreadnought 
pilot-coat,  and  by  a  pair  of  dreadnought  pilot-trousers, 
whereof  the  waistband  was  so  very  broad  and  high,  that 
it  became  a  succedaneum  for  &  waistcoat :  being  ornar- 
men  ted  near  the  wearer's  breast-bone  with  some  massive 


168  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

wooden  buttons,  like  backgammon  men.  As  the  lowei 
portions  of  these  pantaloons  became  revealed,  BunsKy 
stood  confessed  ;  his  hands  in  their  pockets,  which  were 
of  vast  size ;  and  his  gaze  directed,  not  to  Captain  Cut 
tie  or  the  ladies,  but  the  mast-head. 

The  profound  appearance  of  this  philosopher,  who 
was  bulky  and  strong,  and  on  whose  extremely  red  face 
an  expression  of  taciturnity  sat  enthroned,  not  incoi> 
sistent  with  his  chai-acter,  in  Avhich  that  quality  was 
proudly  conspicuous,  almost  daunted  Captain  Cuttle, 
though  on  familiar  terras  with  him.  Whispering  to 
Florence  that  Bunsby  had  never  in  his  life  expressed 
surpi-ise,  and  was  considered  not  to  know  what  it  meant, 
the  captain  watched  him  as  he  eyed  his  mast-head,  and 
afterwards  swept  the  horizon ;  and  when  the  revolving 
eye  seemed  to  be  coming  round  in  his  direction,  said : 

"  Bunsby,  my  lad,  how  fibres  it  ?  " 

A  deep,  gruff,  husky  utterance,  which  seemed  to  have 
no  connection  with  Bunsby,  and  certainly  had  not  the 
least  effect  upon  his  face,  replied,  "Ay,  ay,  shipmet, 
how  goes  it !  "  At  the  same  time  Bunsby's  right  hand 
and  arm,  emerging  from  a  pocket,  shook  the  captain's, 
and  went  back  again. 

''  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  striking  home  at  once, 
"  here  you  are ;  a  man  of  mind,  and  a  man  as  can  give 
an  opinion.  Here's  a  young  lady  as  wants  to  take  that 
c pinion  in  regard  of  ray  friend  Wal'r,  likewise  my 
t'other  friend,  Sol  Gills,  which  is  a  character  for  you 
to  come  within  hail  of,  being  a  man  of  science,  which 
is  the  mother  of  inwention,  and  knows  no  law.  Buns< 
by  will  you   wear,  to  oblige  me,  and  come  along  with 


us ; 


?» 


The  great  commander,  who  seemed  by  the  expression 


♦    DOMBEY  AND  SON.  IGS 

of  his  visage  :o  tie  always  on  the  look-out  for  somethiiig 
in  the  extremest  distance,  and  to  have  no  ocular  knowl- 
edge of  anytliing  within  ten  miles,  made  no  reply  what- 
ever. 

"  Here  is  a  man,"  .>;aid  the  captain,  addressing  himself 
to  his  fair  auditors,  and  indicating  the  commander  with 
his  outstretched  hook,  "  that  has  fell  down  more  than 
any  man  alive  ;  that  has  had  more  accidents  happen  to 
his  own  self  than  the  Seaman's  Hospital  to  all  hands ; 
that  took  as  many  spars  and  bars  and  bolts  about  the 
outside  of  his  head  when  he  was  young,  as  you'd  want  a 
order  for  on  Chatham-yard  to  build  a  pleasure-yacht 
with  ;  and  yet  that  got  his  opinions  in  that  way,  it's  my 
belief,  for  there  a'n't  nothing  like  'em  afloat  or  ashore." 

The  stolid  commander  appeared,  by  a  very  slight  vi- 
bration in  his  elbows,  to  express  some  satisfaction  in  this 
encomium;  but  if  his  face  had  been  as  distant  as  hia 
gaze  was,  it  could  hardly  have  enlightened  the  beholders 
less  in  reference  to  anything  that  was  passing  in  his 
thoughts. 

"  Shipraet,"  said  Bunsby,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  stooping 
down  to  look  out  under  some  interposing  spar,  "  what'll 
the  ladies  drink  ?  " 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  delicacy  was  shocked  by  such 
an  inquiry  in  connection  with  Florence,  drew  the  sage 
aside,  and  seeming  to  explain  in  his  ear,  accompanied 
him  below ;  where,  that  he  might  not  take  offence,  the 
captain  drank  a  dram  himself,  which  Florence  and  Susan, 
glancing  down  the  open  skylight,  saw  the  sage,  with  dif- 
ficulty finding  room  for  himself  between  his  berth  and  a 
eery  little  brass  fireplace,  serve  out  for  self  and  friend. 
Thej  soon  reappeared  on  deck,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  tri- 
'amphing   in   the   success   of  his    enterprise,   conducted 


170  DOMBEr  AND  SON.   - 

Florence  back  to  the  coach,  while  Bun^by  followed,  es- 
corting Miss  Nipper,  whom  he  hugged  upon  the  way 
(much  to  that  young  lady's  indignation)  with  his  pilot- 
coated  arm,  like  a  blue  bear. 

The  captain  put  his  oracle  inside,  and  gloned  so  much 
in  having  secured  him,  and  having  got  that  mind  into  a 
hackney-coach,  that  he  could  not  refrain  from  often  peep- 
ing in  at  Florence  through  the  little  window  behind  the 
driver,  and  testifying  his  delight  in  smiles,  and  also  in 
taps  upon  his  forehead,  to  hint  to  her  that  the  brain  of 
Bunsby  was  hard  at  it.  In  the  mean  time,  Bunsby,  still 
hugging  Miss  Nipper  (for  his  friend,  the  captain,  had  not 
exaggerated  the  softness  of  his  heart),  uniformly  pre- 
served his  gravity  of  deportment,  and  showed  no  other 
consciousness  of  her  or  anything. 

Uncle  Sol,  who  had  come  home,  received  them  at  the 
door,  and  ushered  them  immediately  into  the  little  back- 
parlor  :  sti"angely  altered  by  the  absence  of  Walter.  On 
the  table,  and  about  the  room,  were  the  charts  and  maps 
on  which  the  heavy-hearted  instrument-maker  had  again 
and  again  tracked  the  missing  vessel  across  the  sea,  and 
on  which,  with  a  pair  of  compasses  that  he  still  had  in 
bis  hand,  he  had  been  measuring,  a  minute  before,  how 
fer  she  must  have  driven,  to  have  driven  here  or  there : 
and  trying  to  demonstrate  that  a  long  time  must  elapse 
before  hope  was  exhausted. 

"  Whether  she  can  have  run,"  said  Uncle  Sol,  lx)king 
wistfully  over  the  chart ;  "  but  no,  that's  almost  impoa- 
eible.  Or  whether  she  can  have  been  forced  by  stress 
of  weather,  —  but  that's  not  reasonably  likely.  Or 
wiiether  there  is  any  hope  she  so  far  changed  her  course 
08  —  but  even  I  can  hardly  hope  that!"  With  such 
broken  suggestions,  poor  old  Uncle  Sol  roamed  over  tiM 


DOMBEY  AND  SOIT.  171 

great  sheet  before  b'm,  and  could  not  find  a  speck  of 
hopeful  probability  in  it  large  enough  to  set  one  small 
pomt  of  the  compasses  upon. 

Florence  saw  immediately  —  it  \rould  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  help  seeing  —  that  there  was  a  singular  indescrib- 
able change  in  the  old  man,  and  that  while  his  manner 
wiis  far  more  restless  and  unsettled  than  usual,  there  was 
yet  a  curious,  contradictory  decision  in  it,  that  perplexed 
her  very  much.  She  fancied  once  that  he  spoke  wildly, 
and  at  random ;  for  on  her  saying  she  regretted  not  to 
have  seen  him  when  she  had  been  there  before  that 
morning,  he  at  first  replied  that  he  had  been  to  see  her, 
and  directly  afterwards  seemed  to  wish  to  recall  that 
answer. 

"  You  have  been  to  see  me  ?  "  said  Florence.  "  To- 
day?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  young  lady,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  look- 
ing at  her  and  away  from  her  in  a  confused  manner, 
"I  wish  to  see  you  with  my  own  eyes,  and  to  hear 
you  with  my  own  ears,  once  more  before  "  — There  he 
stopped. 

"  Before  when  ?  Before  what  ?  "  said  Florence,  put- 
ting her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Did  I  say,  '  before '  ?  "  replied  old  Sol.  «  If  I  did,  I 
must  have  meant  before  we  should  have  news  of  my 
dear  boy." 

"  You  are  not  well,"  said  Florence,  tenderly.  "  You 
uave  been  so  very  anxious.  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
ivell." 

"  I  am  as  well,"  returned  the  old  man,  shutting  up  his 
right  hand,  and  holding  it  out  to  show  her :  "  as  well 
%nd  firm  as  any  man  at  my  time  of  life  can  hope  to  be 
See  !    It's  steady.     Is  its  master  not  as  capable  of  reso- 


172  DOM  BEY   AND  SON. 

lutioii  and  fortitude  as  many  a  younger  man?  I  thini 
lo.     We  shall  see." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  more  than  in  his  words, 
though  they  remained  with  her  too,  which  impressetl 
Florence  so  much,  that  she  would  have  confided  her  un- 
easiness to  Captain  Cuttle  at  that  moment,  if  the  captain 
liad  not  seized  that  moment  for  expounding  the  state  of 
circumstances  on  which  the  opinion  of  the  sagacioua 
Bunsby  was  requested,  and  entreating  that  profound  au- 
thority to  deliver  the  same. 

Bunsby,  wliose  eye  continued  to  be  addressed  to  some- 
where about  the  half-way  house  between  London  and 
Gravesend,  two  or  three  times  put  out  his  rough  right 
arm,  as  seeking  to  wind  it  for  inspiration,  round  the  fair 
form  of  Miss  Nipper;  but  that  young  female  having 
withdrawn  herself,  in  displeasure,  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table,  the  soft  heart  of  the  commander  of  the  Cau- 
tious Clara  met  with  no  response  to  its  impulses.  After 
sundry  failures  in  this  wise,  the  commander,  addressing 
himself  to  nobody,  thus  spake  ;  or  rather  the  voice  within 
him  said  of  its  own  accord,  and  quite  independent  of  him- 
self, as  if  he  were  possessed  by  a  gruff  spirit : 

"  My  name's  Jack  Bunsby  ! " 

"  He  was  christened  John,"  cried  the  delighted  Cap- 
tain Cuttle.     "  Hear  him  ! " 

"  And  what  I  says,"  pursued  the  voice,  afler  some  de- 
liberation, "  I  stands  to." 

The  captain,  with  Florence  on  his  arm,  nodded  at  the 
auditory,  and  seemed  to  say,  "Now  he's  coming  out 
This  is  what  I  meant  when  I  brought  him." 

"  Whereby,"  proceeded  the  voice,  "  why  not  ?  If  so, 
what  odds  ?  Can  any  man  say  otherwise  ?  No.  Awas/ 
hen !  *' 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  173 

When  it  had  pursued  its  train  of  argument  to  thig 
point,  the  voice  stopped  and  rested.  It  then  proceeded 
very  slowly,  thus  : 

"  Do  I  believe  that  this  here  Son  and  Heir's  gone 
down,  my  lads  ?  Mayhap.  Do  I  say  so  ?  Which  ? 
If  a  skipper  stands  out  by  Sen'  George's  Channel,  mak- 
ing for  the  Downs,  what's  right  ahead  of  him  ?  The 
Gooilwins.  He  isn't  forced  to  run  upon  the  Goodwins, 
hut  he  may.  The  beaiings  of  this  observation  lays  in 
the  application  on  it.  That  a'n't  no  part  of  my  duty. 
Awast  then,  keep  a  bright  look-out  for'ard,  and  good  luck 
to  you  !  " 

The  voice  here  went  out  of  the  back-parlor  and  into 
the  street,  taking  the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara 
with  it,  and  accompanying  him  on  board  again  with  all 
convenient  expedition,  where  he  immediately  turned  in, 
and  refreshed  his  mind  with  a  nap. 

The  students  of  the  sage's  precepts,  left  to  their  own 
application  of  his  wisdom  —  upon  a  principle  which  was 
the  main  leg  of  the  Bunsby  tripod,  as  it  is  perchance  of 
some  other  oracular  stools  —  looked  at  one  another  in  a 
little  uncertainty  ;  while  Rob  the  Grinder,  who  had 
taken  the  innocent  freedom  of  peering  in,  and  listening, 
through  the  skylight  in  the  roof,  came  softly  down  from 
the  leads,  in  a  state  of  very  dense  confusion.  Captain 
Cuttle,  however,  whose  admiration  of  Bunsby  was,  if 
possible,  enhanced  by  the  splendid  manner  in  which  he 
had  justified  his  reputation  and  come  through  this 
solemn  reference,  proceeded  to  explain  that  Bunsby 
meant  nothiug  but  confidence  ;  that  Bunsby  had  no 
misgivings ;  and  that  such  an  opinion  as  that  man  had 
^iven,  coming  from  such  a  mind  as  his,  was  Hope's  own 
inchor,  and  with  good  roads  to  cast  it  in.     Florence  en- 


174  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

deavored  to  believe  that  the  captain  was  right ;  but  the 
Nipper,  with  her  arms  tight  folded,  shook  her  head  in 
resolute  denial,  and  had  no  more  trust  in  Bunsby  than  in 
Mr.  Perch  himself. 

The  philosopher  seemed  to  have  left  Uncle  Sol  pretty 
much  where  he  had  found  him,  for  he  still  went  roaming 
about  the  watery  world,  compasses  in  hand,  and  discov- 
ering no  rest  for  them.  It  was  in  pursuance  of  a  whis- 
per in  his  ear  from  Florence,  while  the  old  man  was 
absorbed  in  this  pursuit,  that  Captain  Cuttle  laid  his 
heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  What  cheer,  Sol  Gills  ?  "  cried  the  captain,  heartily. 

"  But  so-so,  Ned,"  returned  the  Instrument-maker- 
"I  have  been  remembering,  all  this  afternoon,  that  on 
the  very  day  when  my  boy  entered  Dombey's  house, 
and  came  home  late  to  dinner,  sitting  just  there  where 
you  stand,  we  talked  of  storm  and  shipwreck,  and  I 
could  hardly  turn  him  from  the  subject." 

But  meeting  the  eyes  of  Florence,  which  were  fixed 
with  earnest  scrutiny  upon  his  face,  the  old  man  stopped 
and  smiled. 

"  Stand  by,  old  friend  !  "  cried  the  captain.  "  Look 
alive  !  I  tell  you  what,  Sol  Gills ;  arter  I've  convoyed 
Heart's-delight  safe  home,"  here  the  captain  kissed  his 
hook  to  Florence,  "  T'U  come  back  and  take  you  in  tow 
for  the  rest  of  this  blessed  day.  You'll  come  and  eat 
your  dinner  along  "'ith  me,  Sol,  somewheres  or  other." 

"  Not  to-day,  Ned ! "  said  the  old  man  quickly,  and 
appearing  to  be  unaccountably  startled  by  the  pioposi- 
tion.     "  Not  to-day.     I  couldn't  do  it !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  returned  the  captain,  gazing  at  him  in 
astonishment. 

"I  —  I  have  so  much  to  do.     I  —  1  mean  to  think  o£ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  175 

md  arrange.  T  couldn't  do  it,  Ned,  indeed.  I  must  go 
out  again,  and  be  alone,  and  turn  my  mind  to  many 
things  to-day." 

The  captain  looked  at  the  Instrument-maker,  and 
looked  at  Florence,  and  again  at  the  Instrument-maker. 
"  To-morrow,  then,"  he  suggested  at  last. 

**  Yes,  yes.  To-morrow,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Think 
of  me  to-morrow.     Say  to-morrow." 

"  I  shall  come  here  early,  mind,  Sol  Gills,"  stipulated 
the  captain. 

"  Yes,  yes.  The  first  thing  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
old  Sol  ;  "  and  now  good-by,  Ned  Cuttle,  and  God  bless 
you!" 

Squeezing  both  the  captain's  bands,  with  uncommon 
fervor,  as  he  said  it,  the  old  man  turned  to  Florence, 
folded  hers  in  his  own,  and  put  them  to  his  lips  ;  then 
hurried  her  out  to  the  coach  with  very  singular  precipi- 
tation. Altogether,  he  made  such  an  effect  on  Captain 
Cuttle  that  the  captain  lingered  behind,  and  instructed 
Rob  to  be  particularly  gentle  and  attentive  to  his  master 
until  the  morning :  which  injunction  he  strengthened 
with  the  payment  of  one  shilling  down,  and  the  promise 
of  another  sixpence  before  noon  next  day.  This  kind 
office  performed.  Captain  Cuttle,  who  considered  himself 
the  natural  and  lawful  body-guard  of  Florence,  mounted 
the  box  with  a  mighty  sense  of  his  trust,  and  escorted 
her  home.  At  parting,  he  assured  her  that  he  would 
Etand  by  Sol  Gills,  close  and  true ;  and  once  again  in- 
quired of  Susan  Nipper,  unable  to  forget  her  gallant 
^,ords  in  reference  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  Would  you, 
ilo  you  think,  my  dear,  though  I  " 

When  the  desolate  house  had  closed  upon  the  two,  the 
captain's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  old  Instrument-maker, 


176  DOMUF.Y   AND   SOV. 

and  he  felt  uncomfortable.  Therefore,  ias.teal  of  going 
home,  he  walked  up  and  down  the  street  several  times, 
and,  eking  out  his  leisure  until  evening,  dined  late  at  a 
certain  angular  little  tavern  in  the  city,  with  a  public 
parlor  like  a  wedge,  to  which  glazed  hats  much  resorted. 
The  captain's  principal  intention  was  to  pass  Sol  Gills's 
after  dark,  and  look  in  through  the  window :  which  he 
did.  The  parlor-door  stood  open,  and  he  could  see  his 
old  friend  writing  busily  and  steadily  at  the  table  within, 
while  the  little  Midshipman,  already  sheltered  from  the 
night  dews,  watched  him  from  the  counter ;  under  which 
Rob  the  Grinder  made  his  own  bed,  preparatory  to 
shutting  the  shop.  Reassured  by  the  tranquillity  that 
reigned  within  the  precincts  of  the  wooden  mariner,  the 
captain  headed  for  Brig-place,  resolving  to  weigh  anchor 
betimes  in  the  morning. 


IX)MPET  AND  SON.  177 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE   STUDY  OF   A   LOVING   HEART. 

Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  very  good  pcop^ 
resided  in  a  pretty  villa  at  Fulham,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames ;  which  was  one  of  the  most  desirable  residencea 
in  the  world  when  a  rowing-match  happened  to  be  going 
past,  but  had  its  little  inconveniences  at  other  times, 
iimoiig  which  may  be  enumerated  the  occasional  appear- 
ance of  the  river  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  contem- 
poraneous disappearance  of  the  lawn  and  shrubbery. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  expressed  his  personal  conse- 
quence chiefly  through  an  antique  gold  snuff-box,  and  a 
ponderous  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  which  he  had  an  im- 
posing manner  of  drawing  out  of  his  pocket  like  a  ban- 
ner, and  using  with  both  hands  at  once.  Sir  Barnet's 
object  in  life  was  constantly  to  extend  the  range  of 
his  acquaintance.  Like  a  heavy  bo<ly  dropped  into 
water  —  not  to  disparage  so  worthy  a  gefitleman  by  the 
comparison  —  it  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Sir 
Barnet  must  spread  an  ever-widening  circle  about  him, 
until  there  was  no  room  left.  Or,  like  a  sound  in  air, 
the  vibration  of  which,  according  to  the  speculation  of 
an  ingenious  modern  philosopher,  may  go  on  travelling 
forever  through  the  interminable  fields  of  space,  nothing 
but  coming  to  the  end  of  his  moral  tether  could  stop  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  in  his  voyage  of  discovery  through  the 
»ocial  system. 

VOL.   II.  13 


178  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Sir  Barnet  was  proud  of  making  people  acqiaintcd 
with  people.  He  liked  the  thing  for  its  own  sake,  and 
It  advanced  his  favorite  object  too.  For  example,  if  Sir 
Bai-net  had  the  good  fortune  to  get  hold  of  a  raw  reciuit, 
or  a  coimtry  gentleman,  and  ensnared  him  to  his  hospi- 
table  villa,  Sir  Barnet  would  say  to  him,  on  the  morning 
nfter  bis  arrival,  "Now,  my  dear  sir,  is  there  anybody 
you  would  like  to  know  ?  Who  is  there  you  would  wish 
to  meet  ?  Do  you  take  any  interest  in  writing  people, 
or  in  painting  or  sculpturing  people,  or  in  acting  people, 
or  in  anything  of  that  sort  ?  "  Possibly  the  patient  an- 
swered yes,  and  mentioned  somebody,  of  whom  Sir  Bar- 
net  had  no  more  personal  knowledge  than  of  Ptolemy 
the  Great.  Sir  Barnet  replied,  that  nothing  on  earth 
was  easier,  as  he  knew  him  very  well :  immediately 
called  on  the  aforesaid  somebody,  left  his  card,  wrote  a 
short  note,  —  "  My  dear  Sir  —  penalty  of  your  eminent 
position  —  friend  of  my  house  naturally  desirous  —  Lady 
Skettles  and  myself  participate  —  trust  that  genius  being 
superior  to  ceremonies,  you  will  do  us  the  distinguished 
favor  of  giving  us  the  pleasure,"  &c.  &c.  —  and  so  killed 
a  brace  of  birds  with  one  stone,  dead  as  door-nails.  , 

With  the  snuff-box  and  banner  in  full  force.  Sir  Bar- 
net  Skettles  propounded  his  usual  inquiry  to  Florence 
on  the  first  morning  of  her  visit.  When  Florence 
thanked  him,  and  said  there  was  no  one  in  particular 
whom  she  desired  to  see,  it  was  natural  she  should  think 
with  a  pang  of  poor  lost  Walter.  When  Sir  Barnet  . 
Skettles,  urging  his  kind  offer,  said,  "  My  dear  Miss 
Dorabey,  are  you  sure  you  can  remember  no  one  whom 
your  good  papa  —  to  whom  I  beg  you  to  present  the 
best  complimenf.  of  myself  and  Lady  Skettles  when 
Vou  write — might  wish  you  to  know?"  it  was  natural, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON  179 

perhaps,  that  the  poor  head  should  droop  a  little,  and 
that  lier  voice  should  tremble  as  it  softly  answered  in 
the  negative. 

Skettlos  junior,  much  stiffened  as  to  his  cravat,  and 
sobered  down  as  to  his  spirits,  was  at  home  for  the  holi- 
days, and  appeared  to  feel  himself  aggrieved  by  the 
solicitude  of  his  excellent  mother  that  he  should  be  at* 
tentive  to  Florence.  Another  and  a  deeper  injury  under 
which  the  soul  of  young  Barnet  chafed,  was  the  com- 
pany of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  had  been  invited  on 
a  visit  tc  the  parental  roof  tree,  and  of  whom  the  young 
gentleman  often  said  he  would  have  preferred  their 
passing  the  vacation  at  Jericho. 

"  Is  there  anybody  you  can  suggest,  now,  Doctor 
Blimber  ? "  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  turning  to  that 
gentleman. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Sir  Barnet,"  returned  Doctor 
Blimber.  "  Really  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is,  in 
particular.  I  like  to  know  my  fellow-men  in  general, 
Sir  Barnet.  What  does  Terence  say  ?  Any  one  who 
is  the  parent  of  a  son  is  interesting  to  me." 

"  Has  Mrs.  Blimber  any  wish  to  see  any  remarkable 
person  ?  "  asked  Sir  Barnet  courteously. 

Mrs.  Blimber  replied,  with  a  sweet  smile  and  a  shake 
of  her  sky-blue  cap,  that  if  Sir  Barnet  could  have  made 
her  known  to  Cicero,  she  would  have  troubled  him  :  but 
such  an  introduction  not  being  feasible,  and  she  already 
enjoying  the  friendship  of  himself  and  his  amiable  lady, 
and  possessing  with  the  Doctor  her  husband  theii  joint 
oonlidence  in  regard  to  their  dear  son  —  here  young 
Barnet  was  observed  to  curl  his  nose  —  she  asked  no 
more. 

Sir  Jiarnet   was  fain,  under  these   circumstances,  to 


180  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

content  himself  for  the  time  with  the  company  assem- 
bled. Florence  was  glad  of  that ;  for  she  had  a  studj 
to  pursue  among  them,  and  it  lay  too  near  her  heart, 
and  was  too  precious  and  momentous,  to  yield  to  any 
other  interest. 

There  were  some  children  staying  in  the  house. 
Children  who  were  as  frank  and  happy  with  fathers 
and  with  mothers,  as  those  rosy  faces  opposite  home. 
Children  who  had  no  restraint  upon  their  love,  and 
freely  showed  it.  Florence  sought  to  learn  their  secret ; 
sought  to  find  out  what  it  was  she  had  missed  ;  what 
simple  art  they  knew,  and  she  knew  not ;  how  she  could 
be  taught  by  them  to  show  her  father  that  she  loved 
him,  and  to  win  his  love  again. 

Many  a  day  did  Florence  thoughtfully  observe  these 
children.  On  many  a  bright  morning  did  she  leave  her 
bed  when  the  glorious  sun  rose,  and  walking  up  and 
down  upon  the  river's  bank,  before  any  one  in  the  house 
was  stirring,  look  up  at  the  windows  of  their  rooms,  and 
think  of  them,  asleep,  so  gently  tended  and  affectionately 
thought  of.  Florence  would  feel  more  lonely  then,  than 
in  the  great  house  all  alone  ;  and  would  think  sometimes 
that  she  was  better  there  than  here,  and  that  there  was 
greater  peace  in  hiding  herself  than  in  mingling  with 
others  of  her  age,  and  finding  how  unlike  them  all  she 
was.  But  attentive  to  her  study,  though  it  touched  her 
to  the  quick  at  every  little  leaf  she  turned  in  the  hard 
book,  Florence  remained  among  them,  and  tried,  with- 
patient  hope,  to  gain  the  knowledge  that  she  wearied  for. 

Ah  !  how  to  gain  it !  how  to  know  the  charm  in  its 
beginning !  There  were  daughters  here,  who  rose  up 
in  the  morr.ing,  and  lay  down  to  rest  at  night,  possessed 
of  fathers'  hearts   already.     They   had   no   repulse   tfc 


DOMBEY  AND    SON.  181 

Dvercome,  no  coldness  to  dread,  no  frown  to  smooth 
away.  As  the  morning  advanced,  and  the  windows 
opened  one  by  one,  and  the  dew  began  to  dry  upon 
the  flowers  and  grass,  and  youthful  feet  began  to  move 
upon  the  lawn,  Florence  glancing  round  at  the  bright 
faces,  thought  what  was  there  she  could  learn  from  these 
children  ?  It  was  too  late  to  learn  from  them ;  each 
could  approach  her  father  fearlessly,  and  put  up  her  lips 
to  meet  the  ready  kiss,  and  wind  her  arm  about  the  neck 
that  bent  down  to  caress  her.  She  could  not  begin  by 
being  so  bold.  Oh  !  could  it  be  that  there  was  less  and 
less  hope  as  she  studied  more  and  more  ! 

She  remembered  well,  that  even  the  old  woman  who 
had  robbed  her  when  a  little  child  —  whose  image  and 
whose  house  and  all  she  had  said  and  done,  were  stamp- 
ed upon  her  recollection,  with  the  enduring  sharpness 
of  a  fearful  impression  made  at  that  early  period  of  life 
—  had  spoken  fondly  of  her  daughter,  and  how  terribly 
even  she  had  cried  out  in  the  pain  of  hopeless  separation 
from  her  child.  But  her  own  mother,  she  would  think 
again,  when  she  recalled  this,  had  loved  her  well.  Then, 
sometimes,  when  her  thoughts  reverted  swiftly  to  the 
void  between  herself  and  her  father,  Florence  wo«ld 
tremble,  and  the  tears  would  stai-t  upon  her  face,  as  she 
pictured  to  herself  her  mother  living  on,  and  coming 
also  to  dislike  her,  because  of  her  wanting  the  unknown 
grace  that  should  conciliate  that  father  naturally,  and 
had  never  done  so  from  her  cradle.  She  knew  that  this 
imagination  did  wrong  to  her  mother's  memory,  and  had 
no  truth  in  it,  or  base  to  rest  upon ;  and  yet  she  tried 
so  hard  to  justify  him,  and  to  find  the  whole  blame  in 
herself,  that  she  could  not  resist  its  passing,  like  a  wild 
eloud.  through  the  distacce  of  her  mind. 


182  D0M13EY  AND  SON. 

There  came  among  the  other  visitors,  soon  after  Flor 
ence,  one  beautiful  girl,  three  or  four  years  younerer 
than  she,  who  was  an  orphan  child,  and  who  was  accom- 
panied by  her  aunt,  a  gray-haired  lady,  who  spoke  mu(;b 
to  Florence,  and  who  greatly  liked  (but  that  they  all 
did)  to  hear  her  sing  of  an  evening,  and  would  always 
sit  near  her  at  that  time,  with  motherly  interest.  They 
had  only  been  two  days  in  the  house,  when  Florence, 
being  in  an  arbor  in  the  garden  one  warm  morning, 
musingly  observant  of  a  youthful  group  upon  the  turf, 
through  some  intervening  boughs,  and  wreathing  flow- 
ers for  the  head  of  one  little  creature  among  them  who 
was  the  pet  and  plaything  of  the  rest,  heard  this  same 
lady  and  her  niece,  in  pacing  up  and  down  a  sheltered 
nook  close  by,  speak  of  herself. 

"  Is  Florence  an  orphan  like  me,  aunt  ? "  said  the 
child. 

**No,  my  love.  She  has  no  mother,  but  her  father 
is  living." 

"  Is  she  in  mourning  for  her  poor  mama  now  ? "  in- 
quired the  child,  quickly. 

"  No ;  for  her  only  brother." 

"  Has  she  no  other  brother  ?  " 

«  None." 

"No  sister?" 

"None." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry ! "  said  the  little  girh 

As  they  stopped  soon  afterwards  to  watch  some  boats,^ 
and  had  been  silent  in  the  mean  time,  Florence,  who  had 
risen  when  she  heard  her  name,  and  had  gathered  up 
her  flowers  to  go  and  meet  them,  that  they  might  know 
of  her  beJng  within  hearing,  resumed  her  seat  and  work, 
expecting  to  hear  no  more ;  but  the  ct  nversation  veconi- 
menced  next  moment. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  183 

"  Florence  is  a  favorite  with  every  one  here,  and 
deserves  to  be,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  child,  earnestly. 
^  Where  is  her  papa  ?  " 

The  aunt  replied,  after  a  moment's  pause,  that  she 
did  not  know.  Her  tone  of  voice  arrested  Florence, 
who  had  started  from  her  seat  again ;  and  held  her 
fastened  to  the  spot,  with  her  work  hastily  caught  up 
to  her  bosom,  and  her  two  hands  saving  it  from  being 
scattered  on  the  ground. 

"  He  is  in    England,  I  hope,  aunt  ? "  said  the  child. 

"  I  believe  so.     Yes ;  I  know  he  is,  indeed." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  here  ? " 

"I  believe  not.     No." 

"Is  he  coming  here  to  see  her?" 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  Is  he  lame,  or  blind,  or  ill,  aunt  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

The  flowers  that  Florence  held  to  her  breast  began 
to  fall  when  she  heard  those  words,  so  wonderingly 
spoken.  She  held  them  closer ;  and  her  face  hung 
down  upon  them. 

"  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  after  another  moment  of  silence, 
"  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth  about  Florence  as  I 
have  heard  it,  and  believe  it  to  be.  Tell  no  one  else, 
my  dear,  because  it  may  be  little  known  here,  and  youi 
doing  so  would  give  her  pain." 

"  I  never  will ! "  exclaimed  the  child. 

"I  know  you  never  will,"  returned  the  lady.  "I  can 
trust  you  as  myself.  I  fear  then,  Kate,  that  Florence's 
wther  cares  little  for  her,  very  seldom  sees  her,  never 
was  kind  to  her  in  her  life,  and  now  quite  shuns  hei 
and  avoids  her.  She  would  love  him  dearly  if  he  would 
Buffer  her,  but  he  will  not —  though  for  no  fault  of  hers ; 
and  she  is  greatly  to  be  loved  and  pitied  by  all  gentle 
hearts." 


184  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

More  of  the  flowers  that  Florence  held,  fell  scattering 
ya  the  ground  ;  those  that  remained  were  wet,  but  not 
with  dew ;  and  her  face  dropped  upon  her  laden  hands. 

"  Poor  Florence  !  Dear,  good  Florence  !  "  cried  the 
child. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  have  told  you  this,  Kate  ? " 
said  the  lady. 

"  That  I  raay  be  very  kind  to  her,  and  take  great  care 
to  try  to  please  her.     Is  that  the  reason,  aunt  ?  " 

"Partly,"  said  the  lady,  "but  not  all.  Though  we 
see  her  so  cheerful ;  with  a  pleasant  smile  for  every 
one  ;  ready  to  oblige  us  all,  and  bearing  her  part  in 
every  amusement  here  :  she  can  hardly  be  quite  happy, 
do  you  think  she  can,  Kate  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"  And  you  can  understand,"  pursued  the  lady,  "  why 
her  obsei'vation  of  children  who  have  parents  who  are 
fond  of  them,  and  proud  of  them  —  like  many  here, 
just  now  —  should  make  her  sorrowful  in  secret  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear  aunt,"  said  the  child,  "  I  understand  that 
very  well.     Poor  Florence  !  " 

More  flowers  strayed  upon  the  ground,  and  those  she 
yet  held  to  her  breast  trembled  as  if  a  wintry  wind  were 
rustling  them. 

"  My  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  serious, 
but  very  calm  and  sweet,  and  had  so  impressed  Florence 
&X)m  the  first  moment  of  her  hearing  it,  "  Of  all  the 
youtliful  people  here,  you  are  her  natural  and  harmless 
friend ;  you  have  not  the  innocent  means,  that  happier 
ihildren  have"  — 

"  There  are  none  happier,  aunt ! "  exclaimed  the  child, 
who  seemed  to  cling  about  her. 

—  '^  As  other  children  have,  dear  Kate,  of  reminding 


DOMBEY  AND  SOX.  185 

ber  of  her  misfortune.  Therefore  I  would  have  you. 
when  you  try  to  be  her  little  friend,  ti-y  all  the  more 
for  that,  and  feel  that  the  bereavement  you  sustained  — 
thank  Heaven  I  before  you  knew  its  weight  —  gives  yoD 
claim  and  hold  upon  poor  Florence." 

"  But  I  am  not  withdtit  a  parent's  love,  aunt,  and  1 
never  have  been,"  said  the  child,  "  with  you." 

"  However,  that  may  be,  my  dear,"  returned  the  lady, 
'*  your  misfortune  is  a  lighter  one  than  Florence's ;  for 
not  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world  can  be  so  deserted  as 
the  child  who  is  an  outcast  from  a  living  parent's  love.*' 

The  flowers  were  scattered  on  the  ground  like  dijgt; 
the  empty  hands  were  spread  upon  the  face ;  and  or- 
phaned Florence,  shrinking  down  upon  the  ground,  wept 
long  and  bitterly. 

But  true  of  heart  and  resolute  in  her  good  purpose, 
Florence  held  to  it  as  her  dying  mother  held  by  hei 
upon  tlie  day  that  gave  Paul  life.  He  did  not  know 
how  much  she  loved  him.  However  long  the  time  in 
coming,  and  however  slow  the  interval,  she  must  try  to 
bring  that  knowledge  to  her  father's  heart  one  day  or 
other.  Meantime  she  must  be  careful  in  no  thoughtless 
word,  or  look,  or  bui*st  of  feeling  awakened  by  any 
chance  circumstance,  to  complain  against  him,  or  to  give 
occasion  for  these  whispers  to  his  prejudice. 

Even  in  the  response  she  made  the  orphan  child,  to 
whom  she  was  attracted  strongly,  and  whom  she  Iwid 
such  occasion  to  remember,  Florence  was  mindful  cf 
him.  If  she  singled  her  out  too  plainly  (Florence 
thought)  from  among  the  rest,  she  would  confirm  —  in 
one  mind  certainly ;  perhaps  in  more  —  the  belief  thai 
Ue  was  cruel  and  unnatural.  Her  own  delight  was  no 
let-off  t">  thi.s.     What  she  had  overheard  was  a  reason. 


186  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

aot  for  soothing  herself,  but  for  saving  him  ;  and  Flor- 
ence did  it,  in  pursuance  of  the  study  of  her  heart. 

She  did  so  always.  If  a  book  were  read  aloud,  and 
there  were  anything  in  the  story  that  pointed  at  an  un- 
kind father,  she  was  in  pain  for  their  application  of  it  to 
him  ;  not  for  herself.  So  wit^^any  trifle  of  an  interlude 
that  was  acted,  or  picture  that  was  shown,  or  game  that 
was  played,  among  them.  The  occasions  fur  such  ten- 
derness towards  him  were  so  many,  that  her  mind  mis- 
gave her  often,  it  would  indeed  be  better  to  go  back  tc 
the  old  house,  and  live  again  within  the  shadow  of  its  dull 
walls,  undisturbed.  How  few  who  saw  sweet  Florence, 
in  her  spring  of  womanhood,  the  modest  little  queen  of 
those  small  revels,  imagined  what  a  load  of  sacred  care 
lay  heavy  in  her  breast !  How  few  of  those  who  stiffened 
in  her  father's  freezing  atraosphere,^  suspected  what  a 
heap  of  fiery  coals  was  piled  upon  his  head  ! 

Florence  pursued  her  study  patiently,  and,  failing  to 
acquire  the  secret  of  the  nameless  grace  she  sought, 
among  the  youthful  company  who  were  assembled  in  the 
house,  often  walked  out  alone,  in  the  early  morning, 
among  the  children  of  the  poor.  But  still  she  found 
them  all  too  far  advanced  to  learn  from.  They  had  won 
their  household  places  long  ago,  and  did  not  stand  with- 
out,  as  she  did,  with  a  bar  across  the  door. 

There  was  one  man  whom  she  several  times  observed 
at  work  very  early,  and  often  with  a  girl  of  about  her 
Dwn  age  seated  near  him.  He  was  a  very  poor  man, 
who  seemed  to  have  no  regular  employment,  but  novr- 
went  roaming  about  the  banks  of  the  river  when  the  tide 
was  low,  looking  out  for  bits  and  scraps  in  the  mud  ;  and 
now  worked  at  the  unpromising  little  patch  of  garden* 
ground    before    his   cottage ;    and    now    tinkered    up   n 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  187 

miseraMe  old  boat  that  belonged  to  him  ;  or  did  somfl 
job  of  that   kind   for   a  neighbor,  as  change  occurred. 
Whatever  the  man's  labor,  the  girl  was  never  employed 
tut  sat,  when  she  was  with  him,  in   a  listless,   moping 
state,  and  idle. 

Florence  had  often  wished  to  speak  to  this  man  ;  yet 
she  had  never  taken  courage  to  do  so,  as  he  made  no 
movement  towards  her.  But  one  morning  when  she 
happened  to  come  upon  him  suddenly,  from  a  by-patb 
among  some  pollard  willows  which  terminated  in  the 
little  shelving  piece  of  stony  ground  that  lay  between  h\% 
dwelling  and  the  water,  where  he  was  bending  over  a 
fire  he  had  made  to  calk  the  old  boat  which  was  lying 
bottom  upwards,  close  by,  he  raised  his  head  at  the  sound 
of  her  footstep,  and  gave  her  Good-morning. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Florence,  approaching  nearer 
"you  are  at  work  early." 

*'  I'd  be  glad  to  be  often  at  work,  earlier,  miss,  if  I  had 
work  to  do." 
.     "  Is  it  so  hard  to  get  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  /  find  it  so,"  replied  the  man. 

Florence  glanced  to  where  the  girl  was  sitting,  drawn 
together,  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  cliin  oo 
her  hands,  and  said  : 

"  Is  tliat  your  daughter  ?  " 

He  raised  his  head  quickly,  and  looking  towards  the 
girl  with  a  brightened  face,  nodded  to  her  and  said 
'•  Yes."  Florence  looked  towards  her  too,  and  gave  her 
a  kind  salutation  ;  the  girl  muttered  something  in  return^ 
ungraciously  and  sullenly. 

"  Is  she  in  want  of  employment  also  ?  "  said  Florence. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "  No,  miss,"  he  said.  "  I 
»vork  for  both." 


188  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

*'  Are  tlieie  only  you  two,  then  ?"  inquired  Florence. 

"  Only  us  two,"  said  the  man.  "  Her  mothei  has  been 
dead  these  ten  year.  Martha  ! "  (He  lifted  up  his  head 
again,  and  wliistled  to  her.)  "  Won't  you  say  a  word  to 
the  pretty  young  lady  ?  " 

T'.ie  girl  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  her  cowering 
shoulders,  and  turned  her  head  another  \\ay.  Ugly, 
misshapen,  peevish,  ill-conditioned,  ragged,  dirty  —  but 
beloved !  Oli,  yes,  Florence  had  seen  her  fathei-'o  look 
towards  her,  and  she  knew  whose  look  it  had  no  like- 
ness to. 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  worse  this  morning,  ray  poor  girl !  " 
said  the  man,  suspending  his  work,  and  contemplating 
his  ill-favored  child,  with  a  compassion  that  was  the 
more  tender  for  being  rough. 

"  She  is  ill,  then  ! "  said  Florence. 

The  man  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "  I  don't  believe  my 
Martha's  had  five  short  days*  good  health,"  he  answered, 
looking  at  her  still,  "  in  as  many  long  years." 

''Ay!  and  more  than  that,  John,"  said  a  neighboi, 
who  had  come  down  to  help  him  with  the  boat. 

"More  than  that,  you  say,  do  you  ?"  cried  the  other, 
pushing  back  his  battered  hat,  and  drawing  his  hand 
Bcross  his  forehead.  '"  Very  like.  It  seems  a  long, 
long  time."  _ 

"  And  the  more  the  time,"  pursued  the  neighbor,  "  the 
more  you've  favored  and  humored  her,  John,  'till  she' 
got  to  be  a  burden  to  herself,  and  everybody  else." 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  her  father,  falling  to  his  work  again. 
*  Not  to  me." 

Florence  could  feel  —  who  better  ?  —  how  truly  ht 
spoke.  She  drew  a  little  closer  to  him,  and  would  have 
been  glad  to  touch  his  rugged  hand,  and  thank  him  for 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  189 

his  goodness  to  the  miserable  object  that  he  looked  upon 
with  eyes  so  different  from  any  olher  man's. 

*•  Who  would  favor  my  poor  girl  —  to  call  it  favoring 
—  if  /  didn't  ?  "  said  the  father. 

"Ay,  ay,"  cried  the  neighbor.  "In  reason,  John. 
But  you  !  You  rob  yourself  to  give  to  her.  You  bind 
yourself  hand  and  foot  on  her  account.  You  make  your 
life  miserable  along  of  her.  And  what  does  $he  care ! 
You  don't  believe  she  knows  it  ?  " 

The  father  lifted  up  his  head  again,  and  whistled  to 
her.  Martha  made  the  same  impatient  gesture  with  her 
crouching  shoulders,  in  reply ;  and  he  was  glad  and 
happy. 

"  Only  for  that,  miss,"  said  the  neighbor  with  a  smile, 
in  which  there  was  more  of  secret  sympathy  than  he  ex- 
pressed ;  "  only  to  get  that,  he  never  lets  her  out  of  his 
sight  ! " 

"  Because  the  day'll  come,  and  has  been  coming  a  long 
while,"  observed  the  other,  bending  low  over  his  work, 
"  when  to  get  half  as  much  from  that  unfort'nate  child 
of  mine  —  to  get  the  trembling  of  a  finger,  or  the  waving 
of  a  hair  —  would  be  to  raise  the  dead." 

Florence  softly  put  some  money  near  his  hand  on  the 
old  boat,  and  left  him. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  think,  if  she  were  to  fall 
"11,  if  she  were  to  fade  like  her  dear  brother,  would  he 
hen  know  that  she  had  loved  him ;  would  she  then 
gi*ow  dear  to  him ;  would  he  come  to  her  bedside,  when 
slie  was  weak  and  dim  of  sight,  and  take  her  into  his 
embrace,  and  cancel  all  the  past  ?  Would  he  so  forgive 
!ier,  in  that  changed  condition,  for  not  having  been  able 
to  lay  open  her  childish  heart  to  him,  as  to  make  it  easy 
':'>  relate  with  what  emotions   she   had  gone  out  of  hi< 


190  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

room  that  niglit ;  what  she  had  meant  to  say  if  she  had 
had  the  courage  ;  and  how  she  had  endeavored,  after- 
wards, to  learn  the  way  she  never  knew  in  infancy  ? 

Yes,  she  thought  if  she  were  dying,  he  would  i-elent 
She  thought,  that  if  she  lay,  sei-ene  and  not  unwilling  to 
depart,  upon  the  bed  that  was  curtained  round  with 
recollections  of  their  darling  boy,  he  would  be  touched 
home,  and  would  say,  "  Dear  Florence,  live  for  me,  and 
we  will  love  each  other  as  we  might  have  done,  and  h6 
as  happy  as  we  might  have  been  these  many  years ! " 
She  thought  that  if  she  heard  such  words  from  him,  and 
had  her  arms  clasped  round  him,  she  could  answer  with 
a  smile,  "  It  is  too  late  for  anything  but  this :  I  never 
could  be  happier,  dear  father  ! "  and  so  leave  him,  with 
a  blessing  on  her  lips. 

The  golden  water  she  remembered  on  the  wall,  ap- 
peared to  Florence,  in  the  light  of  such  reflections,  only 
as  a  current  flowing  on  to  rest,  and  to  a  region  where 
the  dear  ones,  gone  before,  were  waiting,  hand  in  hand ; 
and  often  when  she  looked  upon  the  darker  river  rip- 
pling at  her  feet,  she  thought  with  awful  wonder,  but 
not  terror,  of  that  river  which  her  brother  had  so  often 
said  was  bearing  him  away. 

The  father  and  his  sick  daughter  were  yet  fresh  in 
Florence's  mind,  and,  indeed,  that  incident  was  not  a 
week  old,  when  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady  going  out  walk- 
ing in  the  lanes  one  afternoon,  proposed  to  her  to  bear 
them  company.  Florence  readily  consenting.  Lady 
Skettles  ordered  out  young  Barnet  as  a  matter  of  course. 
For  nothing  delighted  Lady  Skettles  so  much,  as  be- 
holding her  eldest  son  with  Florence  on  his  arm. 

Barnet,  to  say  the  truth,  appeared  to  entertain  an  o[>- 
posite  sentimo,nt  on  the  subject,  and  on  such  occasions 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  191 

frequently  expressed  himself  audibly,  though  indefinitely, 
in  reference  to  "  a  parcel  of  girls."  As  it  was  not  easy 
to  ruffle  her  sweet  temper,  however,  Florence  generally 
renonciled  the  young  gentleman  to  his  fate  after  a  few 
minutes,  and  they  strolled  on  amicably :  Lady  Skettles 
and  Sii'  Barnet  following,  in  a  state  of  perfect  com- 
placency and  high  gratification. 

This, was  the  order  of  procedure  on  the  afternoon  in 
question  :  and  Florence  had  almost  succeeded  in  over- 
ruling the  present  objections  of  Skettles  junior  to  his" 
destiny,  when  a  gentleman  on  horseback  came  riding  by, 
looked  at  them  earnestly  as  he  passed,  drew  in  his  rein, 
wheeled  round,  and  came  riding  back  again,  hat  in 
band. 

The  gentleman  had  looked  particularly  at  Florence; 
and  when  the  little  party  stopped,  on  his  riding  back,  he 
bowed  to  her  before  saluting  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady. 
Florence  had  no  remembrance  of  having  ever  seen  him, 
but  she  started  involuntarily  when  he  came  near  her,  and 
drew  back. 

"  My  horse  is  perfectly  quiet,  I  assure  you,"  said  the 
gentleman. 

It  was  not  that,  but  something  in  the  gentleman  him- 
self—  Florence  could  not  have  said  what  —  that  made 
her  recoil  as  if  she  had  been  stung. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Miss  Dombey,  I  be- 
lieve ? "  said  the  gentleman,  with  a  most  persuasive 
smile.  On  Florence  inclining  her  head,  he  added,  "  My 
name  is  Carker.  I  can  hardly  hope  to  be  remembered 
by  Miss  Dombey,  except  by  name.     Carker." 

Florence,  sensible  of  a  strange  inclination  to  shiver, 
though  the  day  was  hot,  presented  him  to  her  host  and 
ho&lcss;  by  whom  he  was  very  graciously  received. 


192  DOMBEY   AND   SON 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  a  thousand  times ! 
But  I  am  going  down  to-morrow  morning  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  at  Leamingvon,  and  if  Miss  Dombey  can  intrust 
me  with  any  commission,  need  I  say  how  very  happy 
I  shall  be?" 

Sir  Bamet  immediately  divining  that  Florence  would 
desire  to  write  a  letter  to  her  father,  proposed  to  return, 
and  besought  Mr.  Carker  to  come  home  and  dine  in  hia 
riding  gear.  Mr.  Carker  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
■"engaged  for  dinner,  but  if  Miss  Dombey  wished  to  write, 
nothing  would  delight  him  more  than  to  accompany  them 
back,  and  to  be  her  faithful  slave  in  waiting  as  long  as 
she  pleased.  As  he  said  this  with  his  widest  smile,  and 
bent  down  close  to  her  to  pat  his  horse's  neck,  Florence, 
meeting  his  eyes,  saw,  rather  than  heard  him  say,  "  There 
is  no  news  of  the  ship  ! " 

Confused,  frightened,  shrinking  from  him,  and  not 
even  sure  that  he  had  said  those  words,  for  he  seemed  to 
have  shown  them  to  her  in  some  extraordinary  manner 
through  his  smile,  instead  of  uttering  them,  Florence 
faintly  said  that  she  was  obliged  to  him,  but  she  would 
not  write  ;  she  had  nothing  to  say. 

"  Nothing  to  send,  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  the  man  of 
teeth. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Florence,  "  but  ray  —  but  ray  dear 
love  —  if  you  please." 

Disturbed  as  Florence  was,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face  with  an  imploring  and  expressive  look,  that  plainly 
besought  him,  if  he  knew  —  which  he  as  plainly  did  — 
that  any  message  between  her  and  her  father  was  an  un- 
eoramon  charge,  but  that  one  most  of  all,  to  spare  her. 
Mr.  Carker  smiled  and  bowed  low,  and  being  charged 
by  Sir  Barnet,  with  the  best  compliments  of  himself  and 


DUMBEr  AND   SON.  198 

Lady  Skettlea,  took  his  leave,  and  i-ode  awaj  :  leaving  a 
favorable  impression  on  that  worthy  couple.  Florence 
was  seized  with  such  a  shuddei*  as  he  went,  that  Sir 
Barnet,  adopting  the  popular  superstition,  supposed  some- 
body was  passing  over  her  grave.  Mr.  Carker,  turning 
a  corner,  on  the  instant,  looked  back,  and  bowed,  and  dis 
.appeared,  as  if  he  rode  off  to  the  church-yard,  stnught.. 
to  do  it. 


IS 


104  DOMBET  ANT>  SON. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BTHAN6E  NEWS   OF   UNCLE   SOL. 

Captain  Cuttle,  though  no  sluggard,  did  not  tnm 
BO  early  on  the  morning  after  he  had  seen  Sol  Gills, 
through  the  shop-window,  writing  in  the  parlor,  with  the 
Midshipman  upon  the  counter,  and  Rob  the  Grinder 
making  up  his  bed  below  it,  but  tliat  the  clocks  struck 
six  as  he  raised  himself  on  his  e1\»ow,  and  took  a  survey 
of  his  little  chamber.  The  C}»p.»m's  eyes  must  iiave 
done  severe  duty,  if  he  usually  opened  them  as  wide  on 
awaking  as  he  did  that  morning ;  and  were  but  roughly 
rewarded  for  their  vigilance,  if  he  generally  rubbed  them 
half  as  hard.  But  the  occasion  was  no  common  one,  for 
Rob  the  Grinder  had  certainly  never  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  Captain  Cuttle's  bedroom  before,  and  in  it  he 
stood  then,  panting  at  the  captain,  with  a  flushed  and 
touzled  air  of  bed  about  him,  that  greatly  heightened 
both  his  color  and  expression. 

*'  Holloa !  "  roared  the  captain.  "  What's  the  raat- 
OT?" 

Before  Rob  could  stammer  a  word  in  answer.  Captain 
Cuttle  turned  out,  all  in  a  he*^,  «..u  covered  the  boy'a 
mouth  with  his  hand. 

"  Steady  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "  don't  ye  speak  a 
word  to  me  as  yet !  " 

TTie  captain,  looking  at  his  visitor  in  great  constema^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  fS5 

lion,  gently  shouldered  him  into  the  next  rcora,  after 
laying  this  injunction  upon  him  ;  and  disappearing  foi  a 
few  moments,  forthwith  returned  in-the  blue  suit.  Hold- 
ing up  his  hand  in  token  of  the  injunction  not  yet  beirg 
taken  off,  Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  to  the  cupboard,  and 
poured  himst-lf  out  a  dram  ;  a  counterpart  of  which  he 
handed  to  the  messenger.  The  captain  then  stood  him- 
self up  in  a  corner,  against  the  wall,  as  if  to  forestall  the 
possibility  of  being  knocked  backward  by  the  communica- 
tion that  was  to  be  made  to  him ;  and  having  swallowed 
his  liquor,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  messenger,  and  his 
face  as  pale  as  his  face  could  be,  requested  him  to 
"  heave-a-head." 

*'  Do  you  mean,  tell  you,  captain  ? "  asked  Rob,  who 
had  been  greatly  impressed  by  these  precautions. 

"  Ay  ! "  said  the  captain. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Rob,  « I  a'n't  got  much  to  tell.  But 
look  here !  " 

Rob  produced  a  bundle  of  keys.  The  captain  sur- 
veyed them,  remained  in  his  corner,  and  surveyed  the 
messenger. 

"  And  look  here  !  "  pursued  Rob. 

The  boy  produced  a  sealed  packet,  which  Captain 
Cuttle  stared  at  as  he  had  stared  at  the  keys. 

"  When  I  woke  this  morning,  captain,"  said  Rob, 
"  which  was  about  a  quarter  after  five,  I  found  these  on 
ny  pillow.  The  shop-door  was  unbolted  and  unlocked, 
a  d  Mr.  Gills  gone." 

"  Gone  ! "  roared  the  captain. 

"  Flowed,  sir,"  returned  Rob. 

The  captain's  voice  was  so  tremendous,  and  he  came 
out  of  his  corner  with  such  way  on  him,  that  Rob  re- 
peated before  him  into  another  corner :  holding  out  the 


196  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

keys   and   packet,  to  prevent  himself  from  being  run 

down. 

"  *  For  Captain  Cuttle,'  sir,"  cried  Hob,  "  is  on  the 
keys,  and  on  the  packet  too.  Upon  my  word  and  honor. 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  don't  know  anything  more  about  it.  I 
wish  I  may  die  if  I  do !  Here's  a  sitiwation  for  a  lad 
that's  just  got  a  sitiwation,"  cried  the  unfortunate  Grin- 
der, screwing  his  cuff  into  his  face :  "  his  master  bolted 
with  his  place,  and  him  blamed  for  it ! " 

These  lamentations  had  reference  to  Captain  Cuttle's 
gaze,  or  rather  glare,  which  was  full  of  vague  suspicions, 
thi-eatenings,  and  denunciations.  Taking  the  proffered 
packet  from  his  hand,  the  captain  opeued  it  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

" '  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  Enclosed  is  my  will ! ' "  The 
captain  turned  it  over,  with  a  doubtful  look  — " '  aud 
testament.' —  Where's  the  testament  ?  "  said  the  captain, 
instantly  impeaching  the  ill-fated  Grinder.  "  What  have 
you  done  with  that,  my  lad  ?  " 

"  /  never  see  it,"  whimpered  Rob.  "  Don't  keep  on 
suspecting  an  innocent  lad,  captain.  J  never  touched 
the  testament." 

Captain  Cuttle  shook  his  head,  implying  that  some- 
body must  be  made  answerable  for  it;  and  gravely 
proceeded :  — 

" '  Which  don't  break  open  for  a  year,  or  until  ycu 
have  decisive  intelligence  of  my  dear  Walter,  who  is 
dear  to  you,  Ned,  too,  I  am  sure.' "  The  captain  paused 
and  shook  his  head  in  some  emotion  ;  then,  as  a  rees- 
tablishment  of  his  dignity  in  this  ti-ying  position,  looked 
with  exceeding  sternness  at  the  Grinder.  " '  If  you 
should  never  hear  of  me,  or  see  me  more,  Ned,  re- 
member an  old  friend  as  he  will  remember  you  to  the 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  197 

last  —  kindly ;  and  at  least  until  the  period  I  nave 
mentioned  has  expired,  keep  a  home  in  the  old  place  for 
Walter.  Tliere  are  no  debts,  the  loan  from  Dombey's 
house  is  paid  off,  and  all  my  keys  I  send  with  this.  Keep 
this  quiet,  and  make  no  inquiry  for  me;  it  is  useless. 
So  no  more,  dear  Ned,  from  your  true  friend,  Solomon 
Gills.' "  The  captain  took  a  long  breath,  and  then  read 
these  words,  written  below:  "'The  boy  Rob,  well  recom- 
mended, as  I  told  you,  from  Dombey's  house.  If  all 
else  should  come  to  the  hammer,  take  care,  Ned,  of  the 
Hule  Midshipman.'" 

To  convey  to  posterity  any  idea  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  captain,  after  turning  this  letter  over  and 
over,  and  reading  it  a  score  of  times,  sat  down  in  his 
chair,  and  held  a  court-martial  on  the  subject  in  his  own 
mind,  would  require  the  united  genius  of  all  the  great 
men,  who,  discarding  their  own  untoward  days,  have  de- 
termined to  go  down  to  posterity,  and  have  never  got 
there.  At  first  the  captain  was  too  much  confounded 
and  distressed  to  think  of  anything  but  the  letter  itself ; 
anu  even  when  his  thoughts  began  to  glance  upon  the 
\tirious  attendant  facts,  they  might,  perhaps,  as  well 
have  occupied  themselves  with  their  former  theme,  for 
any  light  they  reflected  on  them.  In  this  state  of  mind, 
Captain  Cuttle  having  the  Grinder  before  the  court,  and 
no  one  else,  found  it  a  great  relief  to  decide,  generally, 
that  he  was  an  object  of  suspicion  :  which  the  captain 
BO  clearly  expressed  in  his  visage,  that  Rob  remon- 
Itrated. 

"  Oh.  don't,  captain  ! "  cried  the  Grinder.  "  I  wonder 
how  you  can  !  what  have  I  done  to  be  looked  at,  like 
ihat  ?  " 

"My  lad,"  said  Captain    Cuttle,  "don't  you  sing  oul 


198  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ftfore   you're    hurt.     And   don't   you   coramk  .yourself 
whatever  you  do." 

"  I  haven't  been  and  committed  nothing,  captain," 
answered  Rob. 

"  Keep  her  free,  then,**  said  the  captain,  impressively, 
"  and  ride  easy." 

With  a  deep  senoe  of  the  responsibility  imposed  upon 
him,  and  the  necessity  of  thoroughly  fathoming  this 
mysterious  affair,  as  became  a  man  in  his  relations  with 
the  parties.  Captain  Cuttle  resolved  to  go  down  and  ex- 
amine the  premises,  and  to  keep  the  Grinder  with  him. 
Considering  that  youth  as  under  arrest  at  present,  the 
captain  was  in  some  doubt  whether  it  might  not  be  ex- 
pedient to  handcuff  him,  or  tie  his  ankles  together,  or 
attach  a  weight  to  his  legs,  but  not  being  clear  as  to  the 
legality  of  such  formalities,  the  captain  decided  merely 
to  iiold  him  by  the  shoulder  all  the  way,  and  knock  him 
down  if  he  made  any  objection. 

However,  he  made  none,  and  consequently  got  to  the 
Instrument-maker's  house  without  being  placed  under 
any  more  stringent  restraint.  As  the  shutters  were 
not  yet  taken  down,  the  captain's  first  care  was  to  have 
the  shop  opened;  and  when  the  daylight  was  freely  ad- 
mitted, he  proceeded,  with  its  aid,  to  further  investU 
gation. 

The  captain's  first  care  was  to  establish  himself  in  a 
chair  in  the  shop,  as  president  of  the  solemn  tribuna? 
that  was  sitting  within  him ;  and  to  require  Rob  to  lie 
down  in  his  bed  under  the  counter,  show  exactly  where"^ 
he  discovered  the  keys  and  packet  when  he  awoke,  how 
he  found  the  door  when  he  went  to  try  it,  how  he  started 
«ff  to  Brig-place  —  cautiously  preventing  the  latter  imi- 
tation from  being  carried  farther  than  the  threshold  — 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  l^f 

and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  When  all  this  liad 
been  done  several  times,  the  captain  shook  his  head  and 
seemed  to  think  the  matter  had  a  bad  look. 

Next,  the  captain,  with  some  indistinct  idea  of  finding 
a  body,  instituted  a  strict  search  over  the  whole  house ; 
groping  in  the  cellars  with  a  lighted  candle,  thrusting 
his  hook  behind  doors,  bringing  his  head  into  violent 
contact  with  beams,  and  covering  himself  with  cob- 
webs. Mounting  up  to  the  old  man's  bedroom,  they 
found  that  he  had  not  been  in  bed  on  the  previous  night, 
but  had  merely  lain  down  on  tiie  coverlet,  as  was  evi- 
dent from  the  impression  yet  remaining  there. 

"  And  /  think,  captain,"  said  Rob,  looking  round  the 
room,  ''that  when  Mr.  Gills  was  going  in  and  out  so 
often,  these  last  few  days,  he  was  taking  little  things 
away,  piecemeal,  not  to  attract  attention." 

"  Ay  !  "  said  the  captain,  mysteriously.  "  Why  so, 
my  lad?" 

"  Why,"  returned  Rob,  looking  about,  "  I  don't  see 
his  shaving  tackle.  Nor  his  brushes,  captain.  Nor  no 
shirts.     Nor  yet  his  shoes." 

As  each  of  these  articles  was  mentioned,  Captain 
Cuttle  took  particular  notice  of  the  corresponding  de- 
partment of  the  Grinder,  lest  he  should  appear  to  have 
been  in  recent  use,  or  should  prove  to  be  in  present  pos- 
session thereof.  But  Rob  had  no  occasion  to  shave,  cer- 
tainly was  not  brushed,  and  wore  the  clothes  he  had  worn 
for  a  long  time  past,  beyond  all  possibility  of  mistake. 

"  And  what  should  you  say,"  said  the  captain  — 
••not  committing  yourself  —  about  his  time  of  sheering 
off?     Hey?" 

**  Why,  I  think,  captain,"  returned  Rob,  "  that  h<» 
must  have  gone  pretty  soon  after  I  began  to  snore." 


200  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  What  o'clock  was  that  ?  "  said  the  captain,  prepared 
to  be  very  particular  about  the  exact  time. 

"  How  can  I  tell,  captain  !  "  answered  Rob.  "  I  only 
know  that  I'm  a  heavy  sleeper  at  first,  and  a  light  one 
towards  morning ;  and  if  Mr.  Gills  had  come  through 
the  shop  near  diiybreak,  though  ever  so  much  en  tiptoe, 
I'm  pretty  sure  I  should  have  heard  him  shut  the  door 
at  all  events." 

On  mature  consideration  of  this  evidence,  Captain 
Cuttle  began  to  think  that  the  Instrument-maker  muat 
have  vanished  of  his  own  accord ;  to  which  logical  con- 
clusion he  was  assisted  by  the  letter  addressed  to  him- 
self, which,  as  being  unquestionably  in  the  old  man's 
handwriting,  would  seem,  with  no  great  forcing,  to  bear 
the  construction,  that  he  arranged  of  his  own  will,  to  go, 
and  so  went.  Tiie  captain  had  next  to  consider  where 
and  why  ?  and  as  there  was  no  way  whatsoever  that  he 
saw  to  the  solution  of  the  first  difficulty,  he  confined  his^ 
meditations  to  the  second. 

Remembering  the  old  man's  curious  manner,  and  the 
farewell  he  had  taken  of  him  :  unaccountably  fervent  at 
the  time,  but  quite  intelligible  now :  a  terrible  appre- 
hension strengthened  on  the  captain,  that,  overpowered 
by  his  anxieties  and  regrets  for  Walter,  he  had  been 
driven  to  commit  suicide.  Unequal  to  the  wear  and 
tear  of  daily  life,  as  he  had  often  professed  himself  to 
be,  and  shaken  as  he  no  doubt  was  by  the  uncertainty 
and  deferred  hope  he  had  undergone,  it  seemed  no  vio* 
lently  strained  misgiving,  but  only  too  probable. 

Free  from  debt,  and  with  no  fear  for  his  personal 
liberty,  or  the  seizure  of  his  goods,  what  else  but  such  a 
State  of  madness  could  have  hurried  him  away  alone 
and  secretly  ^     A?  to  his  carrying  some  apparel  with 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  201 

him,  if  he  had  really  done  so  —  and  they  were  not  even 
gure  of  that  —  he  might  have  done  so,  the  captain  argued 
to  prevent  inquiry,  to  distract  attention  from  his  probable 
fate,  or  to  ea>e  the  very  mind  that  was  now  revolving 
all  these  possibilities.  Such,  reduced  into  plain  lan- 
guage, and  condensed  within  a  small  compass,  was  the 
final  result  and  substance  of  Captain  Cuttle's  delibera- 
tions ;  which  took  a  long  time  to  amve  at  this  pass,  and 
were,  like  some  more  public  deliberations,  very  discur- 
sive and  disorderly. 

Dejected  and  despondent  in  the  extreme,  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  it  just  to  release  Rob  from  the  arrest  in 
which  he  had  placed  him,  and  to  enlarge  him,  subject 
to  a  kind  of  honorable  inspection  which  he  still  resolved 
to  exercise ;  and  having  hired  a  man,  from  Brogley  the 
broker,  to  sit  in  the  shop  during  their  absence,  the  cap- 
tain, taking  Rob  with  him,  issued  forth  upon  a  dismal 
quest  after  the  mortal  remains  of  Solomon  Gills. 

Not  a  station-house  or  hone-house,  or  work -house  in 
the  metropolis  escaped  a  visitation  from  the  hard  glazed 
hat.  Along  the  wharves,  among  the  shipping,  on  the 
bank  side,  up  the  river,  down  the  river,  here,  there, 
everywhere,  it  went  gleaming  where  men  were  thickest, 
like  the  hero's  helmet  in  an  epic  battle.  For  a  whole 
week  the  captain  read  of  all  the  found  and  missing  peo- 
ple in  all  the  newspapers  and  handbills,  and  went  forth 
on  expeditions  at  all  hours  of  the  day  to  identify  Solo- 
mon Gills,  in  poor  little  ship-boys  who  had  fallen  over- 
board, and  in  tall  foreigners  with  dark  beards  who  had 
taken   poison  — "  to   make    sure,"  Captain    Cuttle  said, 

that  it  warn't  him."  "It  is  a  sure  thing  that  it  never 
iv^as,  and  that  the  good  captain  had  no  other  satisfaction. 

Captain  Cuttle  at  last  abandoned  these  attempts  as 


802  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

hopeless,  and  set  himself  to  consider  what  was  to  be 
done  next.  After  several  new  perusals  of  his  poor 
friend's  letter,  he  considered  that  the  maintenance  of 
"  a  home  in  the  old  place  for  Walter  "  was  the  primary 
duty  imposed  upon  him.  Therefore,  the  captain's  deci- 
sion was,  that  he  would  keep  house  on  the  premises  of 
Solomon  Gills  himself,  and  would  go  into  the  iustrument 
business,  and  see  what  came  of  it. 

IJut  as  this  step  involved  the  relinquishment  of  his 
apartments  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's,  and  he  knew  that 
resolute  woman  would  never  hear  of  his  deserting 
them,  the  captain  took  the  desperate  determination  of 
running  away. 

"  Now,  look  ye  here,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain  to  Rob, 
when  he  had  matured  this  notable  scheme,  "  to-morrow, 
I  shan't  be  found  in  this  here  roadstead  till  night  —  not 
till  arter  midnight  p'raps.  But  you  keep  watch  till  you 
hear  rae  knock,  and  the  moment  you  do,  turn-to,  and 
open  the  door." 

"  Very  good,  captain,"  said  Rob. 

"  You'll  continue  to  be  rated  on  these  here  books," 
pursued  the  captain  condescendingly,  *'  and  I  don't  say 
but  what  you  may  get  promotion,  if  you  and  me  should 
pull  together  with  a  will.  But  the  moment  you  hoar  me 
knock  to-morrow  night,  whatever  time  it  is,  turn-to  and 
ghow  yourself  smart  with  the  door." 

"  I'll  be  sure  to  do  it,  captain,"  replied  Rob. 

"  Because  you  understand,"  resumed  the  captain,  com 
jng  back  again  to  enforce  this  charge  upon  his  mind, 
**  there  may  be,  for  anything  I  can  say,  a  chase ;  and  ] 
might  be  took  while  I  was  waiting,  if  you  didn't  show 
yourself  smart  with  the  door." 

Rob   asjain   assured   the   captain   that   he    would   be 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  208 

prompt  ami  wakeful ;  and  the  captain  having  made  this 
prudent  arrangement,  went  home  to  Mrs.  MacStinger'a 
for  the  last  time. 

The  sense  the  captain  had  of  its  being  the  last  time, 
and  of  the  awful  purpose  hidden  beneath  his  blue  waist- 
coal,  inspired  him  with  such  a  mortal  dread  of  Mrs, 
MacStinger,  that  the  sound  of  that  lady's  foot  down- 
Btairs  at  any  time  of  the  day,  was  sufficient  to  throw 
him  into  a  fit  of  trembling.  It  fell  out,  too,  that  Mrs. 
MacStinger  was  in  a  charming  temper  —  mild  and 
placid  as  a  house-lamb  ;  and  Captain  Cuttle's  conscience 
suffered  terrible  twinges,  when  she  came  up  to  inquiry 
if  she  could  cook  him  nothing  for  his  dinner.  , 

"  A  nice  small  kidney-pudding  now,  Cap'en  Cuttle," 
said  his  landlady  :  "  or  a  sheep's  heart.  Don't  mind 
my  trouble." 

"  No  thank'ee,  ma'am,"  returned  the  captain. 

"  Have  a  roast  fowl,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  '*  with 
a  bit  of  weal  stuffing  and  some  egg  sauce.  Come, 
Cap'en  Cuttle  !     Give  yourself  a  little  treat !  " 

"  No  thank'ee,  ma'am,"  returned  ^he  captain  very 
humbly. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  out  of  sorts,  and  want  to  be  siimu- 
lated,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  "  Why  not  have,  for 
once  in  a  way,  a  bottle  of  sherry-wine  ?  " 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  rejoined  the  captain,  "  if  you'd  be  80 
good  as  take  a  glass  or  two,  I  think  I  would  try  that 
Would  you  do  me  the  favor,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain, 
torn  to  pieces  by  his  conscience,  "  to  accept  a  quarter'a 
rent  ahead  ?  " 

"And  why  so,  Cap'en  Cuttle?"  retorted  Mrs.  Mao- 
Stinger  —  sharply  as  the  captain  thought. 

Tiie  captain  was  frightened  to  death.     "  If  you  would, 


204  DOMBEY  AND   SON 

ma'am,"  he  said  with  submission,  "  it  would  oblige  me, 
I  can't  keep  my  money  very  well.  It  pays  itself  out.  1 
Bhould  take  it  kind  if  you'd  comply." 

"Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  the  unconscious  Mao- 
Stinger,  rubbing  her  hands,  "  you  can  do  as  you  please. 
It's  not  for  me,  with  my  family,  to  refiise,  ho  more  than 
it  is  to  ask." 

"  And  would  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  taking 
down  the  tin  canister,  in  which  he  kept  his  cash,  from 
the  top-shelf  of  the  cupboard,  "  be  so  good  as  offer 
eighteen-pence  apiece  to  the  little  family  all  round  ? 
If  you  could  make  it  convenient,  ma'am,  to  pass  the 
word  presently  for  them  children  to  come  for*ard^iD  a 
body,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  'em." 

These  innocent  MacStingers  were  so  many  daggers 
to  the  captain's  breast,  when  they  appeared  in  a  swarm, 
and  tore  at  him  with  the  confiding  trustfulness  he  so 
little  deserved.  The  eye  of  Alexander  MacStinger, 
who  had  been  his  favorite,  was  insupportable  to  the 
captain  ;  the  voice  of  Juliana  MacStinger,  who  was  the 
picture  of  her  mother,  made  a  coward  of  him. 

Captain  Cuttle  kept  up  appearances,  nevertheless,  tol- 
erably well,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  was  very  hardly 
used  and  roughly  handled  by  the  young  MacStingers : 
who  in  their  childish  frolics,  did  a  little  damage  also  to 
the  glazed  hat,  by  sitting  in  it,  two  at  a  time,  as  in  a 
nest,  and  di'umming  on  the  inside  of  the  crown  with  their 
shoes.  At  length  the  captain  sorrowfully  dismissed 
them  :  taking  leave  of  these  cherubs  with  the  poignant 
remorse  and  grief  of  a  man  who  was  going  to  execu- 
tion. 

In  the  silence  of  night,  the  captain  packed  up  his 
heavier  property  in  a  chest,  which  he  locked,  intending 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  801 

CO  leave  it  there,  in  all  probability  forever,  but  on  the 
forlorn  chance  of  one  day  finding  a  man  sufficiently  bold 
and  desperate  to  come  and  ask  for  it.  Of  his  lighter 
necessaries,  the  captain  made  a  bundle ;  and  disposed 
his  plate  about  his  person,  ready  for  flight.  At  the  hour 
of  midnight,  when  Brig-place  was  buried  in  slumber, 
and  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  lulled  in  sweet  oblivion,  with 
her  infants  around  her,  the  guilty  captain  steah'ng  down 
on  tiptoe,  in  the  dark,  opened  the  door,  closed  it  softly 
after  him,  and  took  to  his  heels. 

Pursued  by  the  image  of  Mrs.  MacStinger  springing 
vUt  of  bed,  and,  regardless  of  costume,  following  and 
bringing  him  back ;  pursued  also  by  a  consciousness  of 
his  enormous  crime ;  Captain  Cuttle  held  on  at  a  great 
j)ace,  and  allowed  no  gi'ass  to  grow  under  his  feet,  be- 
tween Brig-place  and  the  Instrument-maker's  door.  It 
opened  when  he  knocked  —  for  Rob  was  on  the  watch 
—  and  when  it  was  bolted  and  locked  behind  him.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  felt  comparatively  safe. 

"  Whew ! "  cried  the  captain,  looking  round  hira. 
'•  It's  a  breather  !  " 

"  Nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  captain  ? "  cried  the 
gaping  Rob. 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  after  changing  color, 
and  listening  to  a  passing  footstep  in  the  street.  "  But 
mind  ye,  my  lad  ;  if  any  lady,  except  either  of  them 
two  as  you  see  t'other  day,  ever  comes  and  asks  for 
Cap'en  Cuttle,  be  sure  to  report  no  person  of  that  name 
kno-vn,  nor  never  heard  of  here ;  observe  them  orders, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  care,   "japtain,"  returned  Rob. 

"  You  might  say  —  if  you  liked,"  hesitated  the  cap- 
tain, "  that    you'd  read  in  the  paper  that  a  cap'en  of 


206  D0M13ET  AND  SOJT. 

that  name  was  gone  tc  Australia,  emigrating  along  with 
a  whole  ship's  complement  of  people  as  had  all  swore 
never  to  come  back  no  more." 

Rob  nodded  his  understanding  of  these  instructions ; 
and  Captain  Cattle  promising  to  make  a  man  of  him  if 
he  obeyed  orders,  dismissed  him,  yawning,  to  his  bed 
under  the  counter,  and  went  aloft  to  the  chamber  ^ 
Solomon  Gills. 

What  the  captain  suffered  next  day,  whenever  a  bon- 
net passed,  or  how  often  he  darted  out  of  the  shop  to 
elude  imaginary  MacStingers,  and  sought  safety  in  the 
attic,  cannot  be  told.  But  to  avoid  the  fatigues  attend- 
ant on  this  means  of  self-preservation,  the  captain  cur- 
tained the  glass  door  of  communication  between  the  shop 
and  parlor,  on  the  inside,  fitted  a  key  to  it  from  the 
bunch  that  had  been  sent  to  him ;  and  cut  a  small  hole 
of  espial  in  the  wall.  The  advantage  of  this  fortifica- 
tion is  obvious.  On  a  bonnet  appearing,  the  captain 
instantly  slipped  into  his  garrison,  locked  himself  up, 
and  took  a  secret  obsen'ation  of  the  enemy.  Finding 
it  a  false  alarm,  the  captain  instantly  slipped  out  again. 
And  the  bonnets  in  the  street  were  so  very  numerous, 
and  alarms  were  so  inseparable  from  their  appearance, 
that  the  captain  was  almost  incessantly  slipping  in  and 
out  all  day  long. 

Captain  Cuttle  found  time,  however,  in  the  midst  of 
this  fatiguing  service  to  inspect  the  stock ;  in  connection 
with  which  he  had  the  general  idea  (very  laborious  to 
Bob)  that  too  much  friction  could  not  be  bestowed  upon 
it,  and  that  it  could  not  be  made  too  bright.  He  also 
Ucketed  a  few  attractive  looking  articles  at  a  venture, 
at  prices  ranging  from  ten  shillings  to  fifty  pounds,  and 
exposed  them  in  the  window  to  the  great  astonishment 
Df  the  public 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  2^7 

After  effectiug  these  improvements,  Captain  Cuttle, 
surrounded  by  the  instruments,  began  to  feel  scientific 
and  looked  up  at  the  stars  at  night,  through  the  skylight, 
when  he  was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  little  back-parlor 
before  going  to  bed,  as  if  he  had  established  a  kind  of 
properly  in  them.  As  a  tradesman  in  the  city,  too,  ho 
began  to  have  an  interest  in  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  tho 
Sheriffs,  and  in  public  companies ;  and  felt  bound  to 
read  the  quotations  of  the  Funds  every  day,  though  be 
was  unable  to  make  out,  on  any  principle  of  navigation, 
what  the  figures  meant,  and  could  have  very  well  dis- 
pensed with  the  fractions.  Florence,  the  t-aptain  waited 
on,  with  his  strange  news  of  Uncle  Sol,  immediately  after 
taking  possession  of  the  Midshipman ;  but  she  was  away 
from  home.  So  the  captain  sat  himself  down  in  his 
altered  station  of  life,  with  no  comfiany  but  Rob  the 
Grinder ;  and  losing  count  of  time,  as  men  do,  when 
great  changes  come  upon  them,  thought  musingly  of 
Walter,  and  of  Solomon  Gills,  and  even  of  Mrs.  Mao 
Stiiiger  herself,  as  among  the  things  that  had  been. 


08  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE. 

•*  YouE  most  obedient,  sir,"  said  the  major.  "  Damme, 
sir,  a  friend  of  my  friend  Dombey's  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  I'm  glad  to  see  you  !  " 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged,  Carker,"  explained  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  "  to  Major  Bagstock  for  his  company  and  conversa- 
tion. Major  Bagstock  has  rendered  me  great  service, 
Carker." 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  hat  In  hand,  just  arrived  at 
Leamington,  and  just  introduced  to  the  major,  showed 
the  major  his  whole  double  range  of  teeth,  and  trusted 
he  might  take  the  liberty  of  thanking  him  with  all  his 
heart  for  having  effected  so  gr«at  an  improvement  in 
Mr.  Dombey's  looks  and  spirits. 

"By  Gad,  sir,"  said  the  major,  in  reply,  "there  are 
no  thanks  due  to  me,  for  it's  a  give  and  take  affair.  A 
great  creature  like  our  friend  Dorabey,  sir,"  said  the 
major,  lowering  his  voice,  but  not  lowering  it  so  much  as 
to  render  it  inaudible  to  that  gentleman,  "cannot  help 
improving  and  exalting  his  friends.  He  strengthens  and 
invigorates  a  man,  sir,  does  Dombey,  in  his  moral  na- 
ture." 

Mr.  Carker  snapped  at  the  expression.  In  his  moral 
nature.  Exactly.  The  very  words  he  had  been  on  the 
Doint  of  suggesting. 

"  But  when  my  friend  Dombey,  sir,"  added  the  major, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  20& 

"  talks  to  you  of  Major  Bagstock,  I  mus-  crave  leave  to 
Bet  him  and  you  right.  He  means  plain  Joe,  sir  —  Joey 
B.  —  Josh.  Bagstock  —  Joseph  —  rough  and  tough  Old 
J«  sir.     At  your  service." 

Mr.  Carker's  excessively  friendly  inclinations  towards 
the  major,  and  Mr.  Carker's  admiration  of  his  roughness, 
toughness,  and  plainness,  gleamed  out  of  every  tooth  in 
Mr.  Carker's  head. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  you  and  Dombey 
have  the  devil's  own  amount  of  business  to  talk  over.'^ 

"  By  no  means,  major,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major  defiantly,  "  I  know  better ; 
a  man  of  your  mark  —  the  Colossus  of  commerce  —  is 
not  to  be  interrupted.  Your  moments  are  precious.  We 
shall  meet  at  dinner-time.  In  the  interval  old  Joseph 
will  be  scarce.  The  dinner-hour  is  a  sharp  seven,  Mr. 
Carker." 

TVith  that,  the  major,  greatly  swollen  «s  to  his  face, 
withdrew ;  but  immediately  putting  in  his  head  at  the 
door  again,  said : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Dombey,  have  you  any  mes- 
sage to  'em?" 

Mr.  Dombey  in  some  embarrassment,  and  not  without 
a  glance  at  the  courteous  keeper  of  his  business  confi 
dence,  intrusted  the  major  with  his  compliments. 

"  By  the  Lord,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "you  must  make 
it  something  warmer  than  that,  or  old  Joe  will  be  far 
from  welcome." 

"Regards  then,  if  you  wih,  major,"  returned  Mr, 
Dombey. 

"  Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shaking  his  shoulders 
and  his  great  cheeks  jocularly :  "  make  it  something 
wanner  than  that." 

VOL-   II.  14 


210  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  What  70U  please,  then,  major,"  observed  Mr  Dotn- 
bey. 

'•  Our  friend  is  sly  sir,  sly  sir,  de-vilish  sly,"  said  the 
major,  staring  round  the  door  at  Carker.  "  So  is  Bag- 
Etock."  But  stopping  in  the  midst  of  a  chuckle,  and 
drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  the  major  sol- 
emnly exclaimed,  as  he  struck  himself  on  the  chest, 
**  Donihey  !  I  envy  your  feelings.  God  bless  you ! " 
and  withdrew. 

"  You  must  have  found  the  gentleman  a  great  re- 
source," said   Carker,  following  him  with  his  teeth. 

"  Very  great  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  He  has  friends  here,  no  doubt,"  pursued  Carker. 
"I  perceive,  from  what  he  has  said,  that  you  go  into 
society  here.  Do  you  know,"  smiling  horribly,  "  I  am 
w)  very  glad  that  you  go  into  society ! " 

Mr.  Dombey  acknowledged  this  display  of  interest  on 
the  part  of  hi^econd  in  command,  by  twirling  his  watch- 
chain,  and  slightly  moving  his  head. 

"  You  were  formed  for  society,"  said  Caiker.  "  Of 
all  the  men  I  know,  you  are  the  best  adapted  by  nature 
and  by  position,  for  society.  Do  you  know  I  have  been 
frequently  amazed  that  you  should  have  held  it  at  arm'? 
length  so  long  !  " 

"  I  have  had  my  reasons,  Carker.  I  have  been  alone, 
and  indifferent  to  it.  But  you  have  great  social  qualifi" 
cations  yourself,  and  are  the  more  likely  to  have  been 
surprised." 

**0h!  I!"  returned  the  other,  with  ready  self-dis- 
paragement. "  It's  quite  another  matter  in  the  case 
of  a  man  like  me.  I  don't  come  mto  comparison  with 
you." 

Mr.  Dombey  put  his  hand  to  his  neckcloth,  settled  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  21 J 

chin  in  it,  coughed,  and  stood  looking  at  his  failht'ul  friend 
and  servant  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

"  I  shall  have  the  pleasure,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey 
at  length  :  making  as  if  he  swallowed  something  a  little 
too  large  for  his  throat :  "  to  present  you  to  my  —  to  (he 
major's  friends.     Highly  agreeable  people." 

"  Ladies  among    them,   I  presume  ?  "  insinuated  th 
smooth  Manager. 

"  Tiiey  are  all  —  that  is  to  say,  they  are  both  — 
ladie.-;,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Only  two?"  smiled  Carker. 

"  There  are  only  two.  I  have  confined  my  visits  to 
their  residence,  and  have  made  no  other  acquaintance 
here." 

"  Sisters,  pei'haps  ?  "  quoth  Carker. 

"  Mother  and  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

As  Mr.  Dombey  dropped  his  eyes,  and  adjusted  hia 
neckcloth  again,  the  smiling  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the 
Manager  became  in  a  moment,  and  without  any  stage  of 
transition,  transformed  into  a  most  intent  and  frowning 
face,  scanning  his  closely,  and  with  an  ugly  sneer.  As 
Mr.  Dombey  raised  his  eyes,  it  changed  back,  no  less 
quickly,  to  its  old  expression,  and  showed  him  every 
gum  of  which  it  stood  possessed. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Carker.  "  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  know  them.  Speaking  of  daughters,  I  ha\e 
Been  Miss  Dombey." 

There  was  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  Mr.  Dombey'ji 
face. 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  her,"  said  Carker, 
"to  inquire  if  she  could  charge  me  with  any  little  com< 
mission.  I  am  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  the  bearer  of 
any  but  her  —  but  her  dear  love." 


B12  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Wolf's  face  that  it  was  then,  with  even  the  hot  tongue 
revealing  itself  through  the  stretched  mouth,  as  the  eyes 
encountered  Mr.  Doinbey's ! 

"  What  business  intelligence  is  there  ?  **  inquired  the 
latter  gentleman,  after  a  silence,  during  which  Mr. 
Carker  had  produced  some  memoranda  and  other  pa- 
pers. 

"  There  is  very  little,"  returned  Carker.  **  Upon  the 
whole  we  have  not  had  our  usual  good  fortune  of  late^ 
but  that  is  of  little  moment  to  you.  At  Lloyd's  they 
give  up  the  Son  and  Heir  for  lost.  Well,  she  was  in- 
Bured  from  her  keel  to  her  masthead." 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey,  taking  a  chair  near  him, 
"  I  cannot  say  that  young  man,  Gay,  ever  impressed  me 
favorably  "  — 

*'  Nor  me,"  interposed  the  Manager. 

"  But  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  without  heeding  the 
interruption,  "  he  had  never  gone  on  board  that  ship.  I 
wish  he  had  never  been  sent  out." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  didn't  say  so,  in  good  time,  is  it 
not  ?  "  retorted  Carker,  coolly.  "  However,  I  think  it's 
all  for  the  best.  I  really  think  it's  all  for  the  best.  Did 
I  mention  that  there  was  something  like  a  little  confi- 
dence between  Miss  Dombey  and  myself." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  after  an  im- 
pressive pause,  "  that  wherever  Gay  is,  he  is  much  better 
where  he  is,  than  at  home  here.  If  I  were,  or  could  be, 
ui  your  place,  I  should  be  satisfied  of  that.  I  am  quite 
satisfied  of  it  myself.  Miss  Dombey  is  confiding  and 
young  —  perhaps  hardly  proud  enough,  for  your  daugh- 
ter —  if  she  have  a  fault.  Not  that  that  is  much  though, 
I  am  sure.     Will  you  check  these  balances  with  me  ?  * 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2M 

Mr.  Dombey  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  instead  of  bend- 
ing over  the  papei-s  that  were  laid  before  him,  and  looked 
the  Manager  steadily  m  the  face.  The  Manager,  with 
his  eyelids  slightly  raised,  affected  to  be  glancing  at  hia 
figures,  and  to  await  the  leisure  of  his  principal.  He 
showed  that  he  affected  this,  as  if  from  great  delicacy 
and  with  a  design  to  spare  Mr.  Dombey 's  feelings  ;  and 
the  latter,  as  he  looked  at  him,  was  cognizant  of  his  in- 
tended consideration,  and  felt  that  but  for  it,  this  confi- 
dential Carker  would  have  said  a  great  deal  more,  which 
he,  Mr.  Dombey,  was  too  proud  to  ask  for.  It  was  hia 
way  in  business,  often.  Little  by  little,  Mr.  Dombey 's 
gaze  relaxed,  and  his  attention  became  diverted  to  the 
papers  before  him ;  but  while  busy  with  the  occupation 
they  afforded  him,  he  frequently  stopped,  and  looked  at 
Mr.  Carker  again.  Whenever  he  did  so,  Mr.  Carker 
was  demonstrative,  as  before,  in  his  delicacy,  and  im- 
pressed it  on  his  great  chief  more  and  more. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged  ;  and  under  the  skilful 
culture  of  the  Manager,  angry  thoughts  in  reference  to 
poor  Florence  brooded  and  bred  in  Mr.  Dombey's  breast, 
usurping  the  place  of  the  cold  dislike  that  generally 
reigned  there ;  Major  Bagstock,  much  admired  by  the 
old  ladies  of  Leamington,  and  followed  by  the  native, 
carrying  the  usual  amount  of  light  baggage,  straddled 
along  the  shady  side  of  the  way,  to  make  a  moining-call 
on  Mrs.  Skewton.  It  being  mid-day  when  the  major 
reached  the  bower  of  Cleopatra,  he  had  the  good  fortune 
to  find  his  princess  on  her  usual  sofa,  languishing  over  a 
cup  of  coffee,  with  the  room  so  darkened  and  shaded  for 
ber  more  luxurious  repose,  that  Withers,  who  was  in  at- 
endance  on  her,  loomed  like  a  phantom  page. 

"  What  insupportable  creature  is  this,  coming  in  1 " 


214  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

said  Mrs.  Skew  ton.  "  I  cannot  bear  it.  Go  away, 
whoever  you  are  !  " 

"  You  have  not  the  heart  to  banish  J.  B.,  ma'am !  * 
said  the  major,  halting  midway,  to  remonstrate,  with  bia 
eane  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh  it's  you,  is  it  ?  On  second  thoughts  you  may 
enter,"  observed  Cleopatra. 

The  major  entered  accordingly,  and  advancing  1o  the 
sofa  pressed  her  charming  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Cleopatra,  listlessly  waving  her  fan, 
"  a  long  way  off.  Don't  come  too  near  me,  for  I  am 
frightfully  faint  and  sensitive  this  morning,  and  you 
smell  of  the  sun.     You  are  absolutely  tropical." 

"  By  George,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "  the  time  has 
been  when  Joseph  Bagstock  has  been  grilled  and  blis- 
tered by  the  sun  ;  the  time  was,  when  he  was  forced, 
ma'am,  into  such  full  blow,  by  high  hot-house  heat  in  the 
West  Indies,  that  he  was  known  as  the  flower.  A  man 
never  heard  of  Bagstock,  ma'am,  in  those  days ;  he  heard 
of  the  flower  —  the  flower  of  Our's.  The  flower  may 
have  faded,  more  or  less,  ma'am,"  observed  the  major, 
dropping  into  a  much  nearer  chair  than  had  been  indi- 
cated by  his  cruel  divinity,  "  but  it  is  a  tough  plant  yet, 
and  constant  as  the  evergreen." 

Here  the  major,  uridor  cover  of  the  dark  room,  shut 
up  one  eye,  rolled  his  head  like  a  harlequin,  and,  in  hig 
great  self-satisfaction,  perhaps  went  nearer  to  the  con- 
fines of  apoplexy  than  he  had  ever  gone  before. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Granger?"  inquired  Cleopatra  of 
her  page. 

Withers  believed  she  was  in  her  own  room. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "  Go  away,  and 
sjiut  the  door.     I  am  engaged." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  21& 

As  Withers  disappeared,  Mrs.  Skewton  turned  her 
head  languidly  towards  the  major,  without  otherwise 
moving,  and  asked  him  how  his  friend  was. 

"  Dom bey, 'ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  with  a  face- 
tious gurgling  in  hi^  throat,  "  is  as  well  as  a  man  in  hit 
condition  can  be  His  condition  is  a  desperate  ono 
ma'am.  He  is  touched,  is  Dombey.  Touched  ?  "  cried 
the  major.     "  He  is  bayonetted  through  the  body." 

Cleopatra  cast  a  sharp  look  at  the  major,  that  con- 
trasted forcibly  with  the  affected  drawl  in  which  she 
presently  said :  — 

"Major  Bagstock,  although  I  know  but  little  of  the 
world,  —  nor  can  I  really  regret  my  inexperience,  for  I 
fear  it  is  a  false  place  :  full  of  withering  conventionalities: 
where  nature  is  but  little  regarded,  and  where  the  music 
of  the  heartj  and  the  gushing  of  the  soul,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  which  is  so  truly  poetical,  is  seldom  heard, 
—  I  cannot  misunderstand  your  meaning.  There  is  an 
allusion  to  P^dith  —  to  my  extremely  dear  child,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  tracing  the  outline  of  her  eyebrows  with 
her  forefinger,  "  in  your  words,  to  which  the  tenderest  of 
ihords  vibrates  excessively  !  " 

"liluntness,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  "has  ever 
been  the  characteristic  of  the  Bagstock  breed.  You 
are  right.     Joe  admits  it." 

"  And  that  allusion,"  pursued  Cleopatra.  "  would  in- 
volve one  of  the  most  —  if  not  positively  the  most  — 
touching,  and  thrilling,  and  sacred  emotions  of  which  our 
Badly-fallen  nature  is  susceptible,  I  conceive." 

Tlie  major  laid  hia  hand  upon  his  lips,  and  wafted  a 
kiss  to  Cleopatra,  as  if  to  identify  the  emdtion  in  que*- 
"ion. 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  weak.     I  feel  that  I  am  wanting  it 


216  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  energy  which  should  sustain  a  mama :  not  to  say  k 
parent :  on  suph  a  subject,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  tnmming 
her  lips  with  the  laced  edge  of  her  pocket-handkerchief; 
"  but  I  can  hardly  approach  a  topic  so  excessively  mo- 
mentous to  my  dearest  Edith  without  a  feeling  of  faint- 
ness.  Nevertheless,  bad  man,  as  you  have  boldly  r^ 
marked  upon  it,  and  as  it  has  occasioned  me  great 
anguish  :  "  Mrs.  Skewton  touched  her  left  side  with  her 
fan :  "  I  will  not  shrink  from  my  duty." 

The  major,  under  cover  of  the  dimness,  swelled,  and 
swelled,  and  I'olled  his  purple  face  about,  and  winked  his 
lobster  eye,  until  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  wheezing,  which 
obliged  him  to  rise  and  take  a  turn  or  two  about  the 
room,  before  his  fair  friend  could  proceed. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  when  she  at 
length  resumed,  "  was  obliging  enough,  now,  many  weeks 
ago,  to  do  us  the  honor  of  visiting  us  here  ;  in  company, 
my  dear  major,  with  yourself.  I  acknowledge  —  let  me 
be  open  —  that  it  is  my  failing  to  be  the  creature  of  im- 
pulse, and  to  wear  my  heart,  as  it  were,  outside.  I  know 
my  failing  full  well.  My  enemy  cannot  know  it  better. 
But  I  am  not  penitent ;  I  would  rather  not  be  frozen  by 
the  heartless  world,  and  am  content  to  bear  this  imputa- 
tion justly." 

Mrs.  Skewton  arranged  her  tucker,  pinched  her  wiry 
throat  to  give  it  a  soft  surface,  and  went  on  with  great 
complacency. 

"  It  gave  me  (my  dearest  Edith  too,  I  am  sure)  in- 
finite pleasure  to  receive  Mr.  Dombey.  As  a  friend  of 
yours,  my  dear  major,  we  were  naturally  disposed  to  be 
prepossessed  in  his  favor ;  and  I  fancied  that  I  observed 
an  amount  of  heart  in  ilr.  Dombey,  that  was  excessiveW 
•efreshinff." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  217 

"There  is  devilish  little  heart  in  Dombey  now 
ma'am,"  said  the  major. 

"  Wi-etched  man  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  at 
him  languidly,  "  pray  be  silent." 

"J.  B.  is  dumb,  ma'am,"  said  the  major. 

"Mr.  Dombey,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  smoothing  the 
rosy  hue  upon  her  cheeks,  "accordingly  repeated  hifi 
visit ;  and  possibly  finding  some  attraction  in  the  simpli- 
city and  primitiveness  of  our  tastes  —  for  there  is  always 
a  charm  in  nature  —  it  is  so  very  sweet  —  became  one 
of  our  Jittle  circle  every  evening.  Little  did  I  think  of 
the  awful  responsibility  into  which  I  plunged  when  I 
encouraged  Mr.  Dombey  —  to  "  — 

"  To  beat  up  these  quarters,  ma'am,"  suggested  Major 
Bagatock. 

"  Coarse  person  !  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  you  antici- 
pate my  meaning,  though  in  odious  language." 

Here  Mrs.  Skewton  rested  her  elbow  on  the  little 
table  at  her  side,  and  suffering  her  wrist  to  droop  in 
what  she  considered  a  graceful  and  becoming  manner, 
dangled  her  fan  to  and  fro,  and  lazily  admired  her.  hand 
while  speaking. 

"  The  agony  I  have  endured,"  she  said  mincingly,  "  as 
the  truth  has  by  degrees  dawned  upon  me,  has  been  too 
exceedingly  terrific  to  dilate  upon.  My  whole  existence 
is  bound  up  in  my  sweetest  Edith  ;  and  to  see  lier 
cliange  from  day  to  day  —  my  beautiful  pet,  who  lias 
positively  garnered  up  her  heart  since  the  death  of  that 
most  delightful  creature.  Granger  —  is  the  most  affecting 
.hing  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Skewton's  world  was  not  a  very  trying  one,  if 
one  might  judge  of  it  by  the  influence  of  its  most  affect 
V»g  circumstance  upon  her ;  but  this  by  the  way. 


tlS  DOMBEY    AND  SON. 

"  Edith,"  simpered  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  who  is  the  perfed 
pearl  of  my  life,  is  said  to  resemble  me.     I  believe  we  • 
are  alike." 

"  There  is  one  man  in  the  world  who  never  will  admit 
that  any  one  resembles  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  major; 
**  and  that  man's  name  is  old  Joe  Bagstock." 

Cleopatra  made  as  if  she  would  brain  the  flatterer 
with  her  fan,  but  relenting,  smiled  upon  him  and  pro- 
ceeded : 

*'  If  ray  charming  girl  inherits  any  advantages  from 
me,  wicked  one  I " :  the  major  was  the  wicked  one : 
••she  inherits  also  my  foolish  nature.  She  lias  great 
force  of  character  —  mine  has  been  said  to  be  immense, 
though  I  don't  believe  it  —  but  once  moved,  she  is  sus- 
ceptible and  sensitive  to  the  last  extent.  What  are  my 
feelings  when  I  see  her  pining !     They  destroy  me." 

The  major  advancing  his  double  chin,  and  pursing  up 
his  blue  lips  into  a  soothing  expression,  affected  the  pro- 
foundest  sympathy. 

"  The  confidence,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  that  has  sub- 
sisted "between  us  —  the  free  development  of  soul,  and 
openness  of  sentiment  —  is  touching  to  think  of.  We 
have  been  more  like  sisters  than  mama  and  child." 

**J.  B.'s  own  sentiment,"  observed  the  major,  "ex- 
pressed by  J.  B.  fifty  thousand  times ! " 

"  Do  not  interrupt,  rude  man ! "  said  Cleopatra, 
"  What  are  ray  feelings,  then,  when  I  find  that  tliere  is 
one  subject  avoided  by  us !  That  there  is  a  what's  his 
name  —  a  gulf —  opened  between  us.  That  my  own 
artless  Edith  is  changed  to  me !  They  are  of  the  most 
,  poignant  description,  of  course." 

Tlie  major  left, his  chair,  and  took  one  neater  to  th« 
little  table. 


DOM  BEY   AND   SCN.  219 

"  From  day  to  day  I  see  this,  ray  dear  major,"  pro- 
seeded  INIrs.  Skewton.  "  From  day  to  day  I  feel  this. 
From  hour  to  hour  I  reproach  myself  for  that  excess 
of  faith  and  trustfulness  which  has  led  to  such  distressing 
consequences  ;  and  almost  from  minute  to  minute,  1  hope 
that  Mr.  Dombey  may  explain  himself,  and  relie\c  the 
torture  I  undergo,  which  is  extremely  wearing.  But 
nothing  happens,  my  dear  major ;  I  am  the  slave  of  re- 
morse—  take  care  of  the  coffee-cup:  you  are  so  very 
awkward  —  ray  darling  Edith  is  an  altered  being ;  and 
I  really  don't  see  what  is  to  be  dene,  or  what  good  crea- 
ture I  can  advise  with." 

ISIajor  Bagstock,  encouraged  perhaps  by  the  softened 
and  confidential  tone  into  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  after 
several  times  lapsing  into  it  for  a  moment,  seemed  now 
to  have  subsided  for  good :  stretched  out  his  hand  across 
the  little  table,  and  said  with  a  leer, 

"Advise  with  Joe,  ma'ara." 

"  Then,  you  aggravating  raonster,"  said  Cleopatra, 
giving  one  hand  to  the  major,  and  tapping  his  knuck- 
les with  her  fan,  which  she  held  in  the  other :  "  why 
don't  you  talk  to  me  ?  you  know  what  I  mean.  Why 
don't  you  tell  me  something  to  the  purpose  ?  " 

The  major  laughed  and  kissed  the  hand  she  had  be- 
ptowed  upon  him,  and  laughed  again,  immensely. 

"  Is  there  as  much  Heart  in  Mr.  Dombey  as  I  gav€ 
liim  credit  for?"  languished  Cleopatra  tender]}'.  "Do 
you  think  he  is  in  earnest,  ray  dear  major?  Would 
you  recommend  his  being  spoken  to,  or  his  being  left 
alone?  Now  tell  me,  like  a  dear  man,  what  you  would 
id  vise." 

"Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma'am?" 
fhuckled  the  major,  hoarsely. 


*20  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  Mysterious  ci  eature  ?  "  returned  Cleopatra,  bringing 
her  fan  to  bear  upon  the  major's  nose.  "  How  can  tot 
marry  him  ?  " 

**  Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma'am,  J 
say  ?  "  chuckled  the  major  again. 

Mrs.  Skewton  returned  no  answer  in  words,  but 
smiled  upon  the  major  with  so  much  archness  and 
vivacity,  that  that  gallant  officer  considering  himself 
challenged,  would  have  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  ex 
ceedingly  red  lips,  but  for  her  interposing  the  fan  with 
a  very  winning  and  juvenile  dexterity.  It  might  have 
been  in  modesty ;  it  might  have  been  in  apprehension 
of  some  danger  to  their  bloom. 

'*  Dombey,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "  is  a  great  catch." 

"  Oh,  mercenary  wretch  ! "  cried  Cleopatra,  with  a 
little  shriek,  "  I  am  shocked." 

"  And  Dombey,  ma'am,"  pursued  the  major,  thrusting 
forward  his  head,  and  distending  his  eyes,  "  is  in  earnest. 
Joseph  says  it ;  Bagstock  knows  it ;  J.  B.  keeps  him  to 
the  mark.  Leave  Dombey  to  himself,  ma'am.  Dom- 
bey is  safe,  ma'am.  Do  as  you  have  done  ;  do  no  more ; 
and  trust  to  J.  B.  for  the  end." 

"  You  really  think  so,  my  dear  major  ? "  returned 
Cleopatra,  who  had  eyed  him  very  cautiously,  and  very 
searchingly,  in  spite  of  her  listless  bearing. 

"  Sure  of  it,  ma'am,"  rejoined  the  major.  "  Cleopatra 
the  peerless,  and  her  Antony  Bagstock,  will  often  speak 
of  this,  triumphantly,  when  sharing  the  elegance  and 
wealth  of  Edith  Dombey's  establishment.  Dorabey's 
right-hand  man,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  stopping  ab- 
ruptly in  a  chuckle,  and  becoming  serious,  "  has  arrived.*" 

"Thib  morning?"  said  Cleopatra. 

**  This  morning,  ma'am,"  returned  the  mjyor.     "  And 


DOMBEV  AND   SON.  221 

Dombey't*  anxiety  for  his  arrival,  ma'am,  is  to  be  re- 
ferred —  take  J.  B.'s  word  for  tliis ;  for  Joe  is  do-vilish 
sly  " —  the  major  tapped  his  nose,  and  screwed  up  one 
of  his  eyes  tight :  which  did  not  enhance  his  native 
beauty  — "  to  his  desire  that  what  is  in  the  wind  should 
become  known  to  him,  without  Dombey's  telling  an<? 
consulting  him.  For  Dombey  is  as  proud,  ma'am,"  said 
the  major,   "  as  Lucifer." 

"A  charming  quality,"  lisped  Mrs.  Skew  ton ;  "re- 
minding one  of  dearest  Edith." 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.  "  I  have  thrown 
out  hints  already,  and  the  right-hand  man  understands 
'em  ;  and  I'll  throw  out  more  before  the  day  is  done. 
Dombey  projected  this  morning  a  ride  to  Warwick  Cas- 
tle, and  to  Kenilworth,  to-morrow,  to  be  preceded  by  a 
breakfast  with  us.  I  undertook  the  delivery  of  this 
invitation.  Will  you  honor  us  so  far,  ma'am  ? "  said 
the  major,  swelling  witii  shortness  of  breath  and  slyness, 
as  he  produced  a  note,  addressed  to  the  Honorable  Mrs. 
Skewton,  by  favor  of  Major  Bagstock,  wherein  hers 
ever  faithfully,  Paul  Dombey,  besought  her  and  her 
amiable  and  accomplished  daughter  to  consent  to  the 
proposed  excursion  :  and  in  a  postscript  unto  which  the 
same  ever  tUitlifuUy  Paul  Dombey  entreated  to  he  re- 
called to  the  I'emembrance  of  Mrs.  Granger. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Cleopatra,  suddenly,  "  P:dilii !  " 

The  loving  mother  can  scarcely  be  described  as  re- 
uming  her  insipid  and  alFected  air  when  she  made  this 
exclamation  ;  for  she  had  never  cast  it  off;  nor  was  it 
likely  that  she  ever  would  or  could,  in  any  other  place 
than  in  the  grave.  But  hurriedly  dismissing  whatever 
shadow  of  earnestness,  or  faint  confession  of  a  purpose. 
Iau<labl8  or   wicked,  that  her  face,  or  voice,  or  manner 


222  DOMBEY  AND  SON, 

bad,  for  the  moment,  betrayed,  she  lounged  upon  the 
couch,  lier  most  insipid  and  most  languid  self  again,  as 
Edith  entered  the  room. 

Edith,  so  beautiful  and   stately,  but   so  cold   and  so 
repelling.     Who,  slightly  acknowledging   the    presence 
of  Major  Bagstock,  and  directing  a  keen  glance  at  her 
mother,  drew  back  the  curtain  from  a  window,  and  sat^ 
down  there,  looking  out. 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  where  on 
earth  have  you  been  ?  I  have  wanted  you,  my  love, 
most  sadly." 

"  You  said  you  were  engaged,  and  I  stayed  away," 
she  answered,  without  turning  her  head. 

*'  It  was  cruel  to  Old  Joe,  ma'am,"  said  the  major  in 
his  gallantry. 

"  It  was  very  cruel,  I  know,"  she  said,  still  looking 
out  —  and  said  with  such  calm  disdain  that  the  major 
was  discomfited,  and  could  think  of  nothing  in  reply. 

"Major  Bagstock,  my  darling  Edith,"  drawled  her 
mother,  "  who  is  generally  the  most  useless  and  disagree- 
able creature  in  the  world  :  as  you  know  " — 

"  It  is  surely  not  worth  while,  mama,"  said  Edith, 
looking  round,  "  to  observe  these  forms  of  speech.  We 
are  quite  alone.     We  know  each  other." 

The  quiet  scorn  that  sat  upon  her  handsome  face  — 
a  scorn  that  evidently  lighted  on  herself,  no  less  than 
them  —  was  so  intense  and  deep,  that  her  mother's 
simper,  for  the  instant,  though  of  a  hardy  constitution, 
drooped  before  it. 

"  My  darling  girl,"  she  began  again. 

"Not  woman  yet?"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile. 

"  How  very  odd  you  are  to-day,  my  dear !  Pray  let 
me  say,  my  love,  that  Major  Bagstock  has  brought  thp 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  223 

kindest  of  notes  from  Mr.  Dombey,  proposing  that  we 
Bhould  breakfast  with  him  to-morrow,  and  ride  to  War- 
wick and  Kenilworth.     Will  you  go,  Edith  ?  " 

"  Will  I  go ! "  she  repeated,  turning  very  red,  and 
breathing  quickly  as  she  looked  round  at  her  mother. 

"  I  knew  you  would,  my  own,"  observed  the  latter 
jarelessly.  "  It  is,  as  you  say,  quite  a  form  to  ask. 
Hore  is  Mr.  Dombey's  letter,  Edith." 

*'  Thank  you.  I  have  no  desire  to  read  it,"  was  her 
answer. 

"  Then  perhaps  I  had  better  answer  it  myself,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  "  though  I  had  thought  of  asking  you 
to  be  my  secretary,  darling."  As  Edith  made  nomove- 
ment  and  no  answer,  Mrs.  Skewton  begged  the  major 
to  wheel  her  little  table  nearer,  and  to  set  open  the 
desk  it  contained,  and  to  take  out  pen  and  paper  for 
her ;  all  which  congenial  offices  of  gallantry  the  major 
discharged,  with  much  submission  and  devotion. 

"  Your  regards,  Edith,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  pausing,  pen  in  hand,  at  the  postscript. 

"  What  you  will,  mama,"  she  answered,  without  turn- 
ing her  head,  and  with  supreme  indifference. 

Mrs.  Skewton  wrote  what  she  would,  without  seeking 
foi  any  more  explicit  directions,  and  handed  her  letter 
to  the  major,  who  receiving  it  as  a  precious  charge, 
made  a  show  of  laying  it  near  his  heart,  but  was  fain 
to  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  his  pantaloons  on  account  of 
the  insecurity  of  his  waistcoat.  The  major  then  took 
a  very  polished  and  chivalrous  farewell  of  both  ladies, 
which  the  elder  one  acknowledged  in  her  usual  manner, 
while  the  younger,  sitting  with  her  face  addressed  to 
the  window,  bent  her  head  so  slightly  that  it  would 
nave  been  a  greater  compliment  to  the  major  to  Lave 


824  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

made  no  sign  at  all,  and  to  have  left  him  to  infei  that 
be  had  not  been  heard  or  thought  of. 

■'  As  to  alteration  in  her,  sir,"  mused  the  major,  on 
his  way  back ;  on  which  expedition  —  the  ifteriioon 
being  sunny  and  hot  —  he  ordered  the  native  and  the 
light  baggage  to  the  front,  and  walked  in  the  shadow 
of  that  expati'iated  prince :  "  as  to  alteration,  sir,  iind 
pining,  and  so  forth,  that  won't  go  down  with  Joseph 
Bagstock.  None  of  that,  sir.  It  won't  do  here.  But 
as  to  there  being  something  of  a  division  between  'em 
—  or  a  gulf  as  the  mother  calls  it  —  damme,  sir,  that 
seems  true  enough.  And  it's  odd  enough  !  Well,  sir !  " 
panted*  the  major,  ''  Edith  Granger  and  Dombey  are 
well  matched  ;  let  'em  fight  it  out !  Bagstock  backs  the 
winner ! " 

The  major,  by  saying  these  latter  words  aloud,  in  the 
vigor  of  his  thoughts,  caused  the  unhappy  native  to  stop, 
and  turn  round,  in  the  belief  that  he  was  personally  ad- 
dressed. Exasperated  to  the  last  degree  by  this  act  of 
insubordination,  the  major  (though  he  was  swelling  with 
enjoyment  of  his  own  humor,  at  the  moment  of  its  oc- 
currence) instantly  thrust  his  cane  among  the  native's 
ribs,  and  continued  to  stir  him  up  at  short  intervals,  all 
the  way  to  the  hotel. 

Nor  was  the  major  less  exasperated  as  he  dressed  for 
dmner,  during  which  operation  the  dark  servant  under- 
went the  pelting  of  a  shower  of  miscellaneous  objects, 
varying  in  size  from  a  boot  to  a  hairbrush,  and  includ* 
ing  everything  that  came  within  his  master's  reach.  For 
the  major  plumed  himself  on  having  the  native  in  a  per- 
fect state  of  drill,  and  visited  the  least  departuie  from 
strict  discipline  with  this  kind  of  fatigue  duty.  Add 
to  this,  that  he  maintained  the  native  about  his  person 


DGiniEY  AND  SON.  88A 

ns  a  counter-irritant  against  the  gout,  and  all  other 
vexations,  mental  as  well  as  bodily ;  and  the  native 
would  appear  to  have  earned  his  pay  —  which  was  not 
large. 

At  length  the  major  having  disposed  of  all  the  mis- 
siles that  were  convenient  to  his  hand,  and  having  calle<l 
Ihc  native  so  many  new  names  as  must  have  given  him 
great  occasion  to  marvel  at  the  resources  of  the  English 
language,  submitted  to  have  his  cravat  put  on ;  and  l)e- 
ing  dressed,  and  finding  himself  in  a  brij.k  flow  of  spirit* 
after  this  exercise,  went  down-stairs  to  enliven  "  Dora- 
bey  "  and  his  riglit-hand  man. 

Dombey  was  not  yet  in  the  room,  but  the  right-hand 
man  was  there,  and  his  dental  treasures  were,  as  usual^ 
ready  for  the  major. 

•'  Well,  sir ! "  said  the  major.  "  How  have  you  passed 
the  time  since  I  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you  ? 
Have  you  walked  at  all?" 

"  A  saunter  of  barely  half  an  hour's  duration,"  re- 
turned Carker.     "  We  have   been  so  much  occupied." 

"  Business,  eh  .'' "  said  the  major. 

"A  variety  of  little  matt^.rs  necessary  to  be  gone 
through,"  replied  Carker.  "  But  do  you  know  —  this  is 
quite  unusual  with  me,  educated  in  a  distrustful  school, 
and  who  am  not  generally  disposed  to  be  communica- 
tive," he  said,  breaking  off,  and  speaking  in  a  charming 
tone  of  frankness  —  "but  I  feel  quite  confidential  with 
you,  Major  Bagstock." 

"  You  do  me  honor,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "  You 
may  be." 

"  Do  you  know  then,"  pursued  Carker,  "  that  1  have 
not  found  my  friend  —  our  friend,  I  ought  ratner  to  cmi' 
aim    — 

VOL.    II.  16 


226  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Meaning  Dombey,  sir  ?  "  cried  the  major.  "  You 
Bee  me,  Mr.  Carker,  standing  here !  J.  B  ?  " 

He  was  puflFy  enough  to  see,  and  blue  enough ;  and 
Mr.  Carker  intimated  that  he  had  that  pleasure. 

"  Then  you  see  a  man,  sir,  who  would  go  through 
fire  and  water  to  serve  Dombey,"  returned  Major  Bag> 
stock. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled,  and  said  he  was  sure  of  it  **  Do 
you  know,  major,"  he  proceeded :  "  to  resume  where  I 
left  off:  that  I  have  not  found  our  friend  so  attentive  to 
business  to-day,  as  usual  ?  " 

"  No  ?  "  observed  the  delighted  major. 

"I  have  found  him  a  little  abstracted,  and  with  nis 
attention  disposed  to  wander,"  said  Carker. 

*'  By  Jove,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  "  there's  a  lady  in 
the  case." 

"  Indeed,  I  begin  to  believe  there  really  is,"  returned 
Carker.  "I  thought  you  might  be  jesting  when  you 
seemed  to  hint  at  it;  for  I  know  you  military  men"  — 

The  major  gave  the  horse's  cough,  and  shook  his  head 
and  shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Well !  we  are  gay 
dogs,  there's  no  denying."  He  then  seized  Mr.  Carker 
by  the  button-hole,  and  with  starting  eyes  whispered  in 
his  ear  that  she  was  a  woman  of  extraordinary  charms, 
sir.  That  she  was  a  young  widow,  sir.  That  she  was 
of  a  fine  family,  sir.  That  Dombey  was  over  head  and 
cars  in  love  with  her,  sir,  and  that  it  would  be  a  good 
match  on  both  sides ;  for  she  had  beauty,  blood,  and 
talent,  and  Dombey  had  fortune ;  and  what  more  could 
(iny  couple  have?  Hearing  Mr.  Dombey's  footsteps 
without,  the  major  cut  himself  short  by  saying,  that  Mr. 
Carker  would  see  her  to-morrow  morning,  and  would 
judge  for  himself;  and  between  his  mental  excitement. 


DOMBEY  Am)  SON.  22? 

Rod  the  exertion  of  saying  all  this  in  vrh<,t.if  whispers, 
the  major  ^^at  gurgling  in  the  throat  and  wintering  at  the 
eyes,  until  dinner  was  ready. 

The  major,  like  some  other  noble  auimals,  exhibited 
himself  to  great  advantage  at  feeding-tiine.  On  this  oc- 
casion, he  shone  resplendent  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
supported  by  the  milder  lustre  of  Mr.  Dombey  at 
the  other ;  while  Carker  on  one  side  lent  his  ray  to 
either  light,  or  suffered  it  to  merge  into  both,  as  occasion 
arose. 

During  the  first  course  or  two,  the  major  was  usually 
grave  ;  for  the  native,  in  obedience  to  general  orders, 
secretly  issued,  collected  every  sauce  and  cruet  round 
him,  and  gave  him  a  great  deal  to  do,  in  taking  out  the 
stoppers,  and  mixing  up  the  contents  in  his  pmte.  Be- 
sides which,  the  native  had  private  zests  anu  flavors  on 
a  side-table,  with  which  the  major  daily  scorched  him- 
self ;  to  say  nothing  of  strange  machines  oox  of  which  he 
spirted  unknown  liquids  into  the  majnr".^  drink.  But  on 
tliis  occasion.  Major  Bagstock,  even  amidst  these  many 
occupations,  found  time  to  be  sociai ;  and  his  sociality 
consisted  in  excessive  slyness  for  the  behoof  of  Mr. 
Carker,  and  the  betrayal  of  Mr.  Dombey's  state  of 
mind. 

'  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "you  don't  eat;  what's 
the  matter.?" 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  that  gentleman,  "  I  am  doing 
i  cry  well ;  I  have  no  great  appetite  to-day." 

"  Why,  Dombey,  what's  become  of  it  ? "  asked  the 
major.  "  Where's  it  gone  ?  You  haven't  left  it  with 
our  friends,  I'll  swear,  for  I  can  answer  for  their  having 
none  to-day  at  luncheon.  I  can  answer  for  one  of  'enJo 
at  least ;  I  won't  say  which." 


2-2S  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Thon  the  major  winked  at  Carker,  and  became  so 
frightfully  sly,  that  his  dark  attendant  was  obliged  to  pat 
him  on  the  back,  without  orders,  or  he  would  probably 
have  disappeared  under  the  table. 

In  a  later  stage  of  the  dinner*:  that  is  to  say,  when 
the  native  stood  at  the  major's  elbow  ready  to  serve 
the  first  bottle  of  champagne :  the  major  became  tiill 
slyer. 

"  Fill  this  to  the  brim,  you  scoundrel,"  said  the  major, 
holding  up  his  glass.  "  Fill  Mr.  Carker's  to  the  brim 
too.  And  Mr.  Dombey's  too.  By  Gad,  gentlemen," 
said  the  major,  winking  at  his  new  friend,  while  Mr. 
Dombey  looked  into  his  plate  with  a  conscious  air, 
"  we'll  consecrate  this  glass  of  wine  to  a  divinity  whom 
Joe  is  proud  to  know,  and  at  a  distance  humbly  and 
reverently  to  admire.  Edith,"  said  the  major,  "  is  her 
name ;  angelic  Edith  !  " 

"  To  angelic  Edith  !  "  cried  the  smiling  Carker. 

"  Edith,  by  all  means,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  enti-ance  of  the  waiters  with  new  dishes  caused 
the  major  to  be  slyer  yet,  but  in  a  more  serious  vein. 
"  For  though,  among  ourselves,  Joe  Bagstock  mingles 
jest  and  earnest  on  this  subject,  sir,"  said  the  major,  lay- 
mg  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  speaking  half  apart  to 
Carker,  "  he  holds  that  name  too  sacred  to  be  made  the 
property  of  these  fellows,  or  of  any  fellows.  Not  u 
woi-d,  sir,  while  they  are  here  ! " 

This  was  respectful  and  becoming  on  the  major's  pait, 
und  Mr.  Dombey  plainly  felt  it  so.  Although  embar- 
rassed in  his  own  frigid  way,  by  the  majoi''s  allusions, 
Mr.  Dombey  had  no  objection  to  such  rallying,  it  was 
dear,  but  rather  courted  it.  Perhaps  the  major  had 
been  pretty  near  the  truth,  when   he  had  divined  that 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  229 

morning  that  the  great  man  who  was  too  haughty  for- 
merly to  consult  with,  or  confide  in  his  prime  minister, 
on  such  a  matter,  yet  wished  him  to  be  fully  possessed 
of  it.  Let  this  be  how  it  may,  he  often  glanced  at  Mr. 
Carker  while  the  major  plied  his  light  artillery,  and 
seemed  watchful  of  its  effect  upon  him. 

But  the  major,  having  secured  an  attentive  listener, 
and  a  smiler  who  had  not  his  match  in  all  the  world  — 
"  in  short,  a  de-vilish  intelligent  and  agreeable  fellow," 
08  ho  often  afterwards  declared  —  was  not  going  to  let 
him  off  with  a  little  slyness  personal  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
Tlierefore,  on  the  removal  of  the  cloth,  the  major  de- 
veloped himself  as  a  choice  spirit  in  the  broader  and 
more  comprehensive  range  of  narrating  regimental 
stories,  and  cracking  regimental  jokes,  which  he  did 
with  such  prodigal  exuberance,  that  Carker  was  (or 
feigned  to  be)  quite  exhausted  with  laughter  and  admi- 
ration :  while  Mr.  Dombey  looked  on  over  his  starched 
cravat,  like  the  major's  proprietor,  or  like  a  stately  show- 
man who  was  glad  to  see  his  bear  dancing  well. 

When  the  major  was  too  hoarse  with  meat  and  drink, 
and  the  display  of  his  social  powers  to  render  himself 
intelligible  any  longer,  they  adjourned  to  coffee.  After 
whicli,  the  major  inquired  of  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
with  little  apparent  hope  of  an  answer  in  the  affirmative, 
if  he  played  picquet. 

"  Yes,  I  play  picquet  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Backgammon,  perhaps  ? "  observed  the  major,  hesi^ 
tating. 

"Yes,  I  play  backgammon  a  little  too,"  replied  the 
tuan  of  teeth. 

"  Carker  plays  at  all  games,  I  believe,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  laying  himself  on  a  sofa  like  a  mac  of  wood 


230  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

without  a  hinge  or  a  joint  in  him;  "ami  plays  tbem 
well." 

In  sooth,  he  played  the  two  in  question,  to  such  per- 
fection, that  the  major  was  astonished,  and  asked  hira, 
at  random,  if  he  played  chess. 

"  Yes,  I  play  chess  a  httle,"  answered  Carker.  "  1 
have  sometimes  played,  and  won  a  game  —  it's  a  mere 
trick  —  without  seeing  the  board." 

"By  Gad,  sir!"  said  the  major,  staring,  "you're  a 
contrast  to  Dombey,  who  plays  nothing."  • 

"  Oh !  He  !  returned  the  manager.  He  has  never 
had  occasion  to  acquire  such  little  arts.  To  men  like 
me,  they  are  sometimes  useful.  As  at  present,  ISEajor 
Bagstock,  when  they  enable  me  to  take  a  hand  with 
you." 

It  might  be  only  the  false  mouth,  so  smooth  and  wide ; 
and  yet  there  seemed  to  lurk  beneath  the  humility  and 
subserviency  of  this  short  speech,  a  something  like  a 
snarl ;  and  for  a  moment,  one  might  have  thought 
that  the  white  teeth  were  prone  to  bite  the  hand  they 
fawned  upon.  But  the  major  thought  nothing  about  it, 
and  Mr.  Dombey  lay  meditating  with  his  eyes  half  shut, 
during  the  whole  of  the  play,  which  lasted  until  bed- 
time. 

By  that  time,  Mr.  Carker,  though  the  winner,  had 
mounted  high  into  the  major's  good  opinion,  insomuch, 
that  when  he  left  the  major  at  his  own  room  before 
going  to  bed,  the  major,  as  a  special  attention,  sent  the 
native  —  who  always  rested  on  a  mattress  spread  upon 
the  ground  at  his  master's  door  —  along  the  gallery,  to 
light  him  to  his  i*oom  in  state. 

There  was  a  faint  blur  on  the  surface  of  the  mirroi 
m  Mr.  Carker's  chamber,  and  its  reflection  was,  perhaps, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2^1 

h  false  one.  But  it  showed,  that  night,  the  image  of  a 
man,  who  saw,  in  his  fancy,  a  crowd  of  people  slumber- 
ing on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  like  the  poor  native  at  his 
•master's  door :  who  picked  his  way  among  them  :  look* 
lag  down  maliciously  enough:  but  tiod  upon  no  upturaod 
fkoe  —  as  yet. 


f^  DOMBET  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 


DEEPER   SHADOWS. 


Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rose  with  the  laik,  and 
went  out,  walking  in  the  summer  day.  His  meditaliona 
—  and  he  meditated  with  contracted  brows  while  he 
Btrolled  along  —  hardly  seemed  to  soar  as  high  as  the 
lark,  or  to  mount  in  that  direction ;  rather  they  kept 
close  to  their  nest  upon  the  earth,  and  looked  about, 
among  the  dust  and  worms.  But  there  was  not  a  bird 
in  the  air,  singing  unseen,  farther  beyond  the  reach  of 
human  eye  than  Mr.  Carker's  thoughts.  He  had  hia 
face  so  perfectly  under  control,  that  few  could  say  more, 
in  distinct  terms,  of  its  expression,  than  that  it  smiled 
or  that  it  pondered.  It  pondered  now,  intently.  As 
the  lark  rose  higher,  he  sank  deeper  in  thought.  As  the 
lark  poured  out  her  melody  clearer  and  stronger,  he  fell 
into  a  graver  and  profounder  silence.  At  length,  when 
the  lark  came  headlong  down,  with  an  accumulating 
stream  of  song,  and  dropped  among  the  green  wheat 
near  him,  rippling  in  the  breath  of  the  morning  like  a 
river,  he  sprang  up  from  his  revery,  and  looked  round 
with  a  sudden  smile,  as  courteous  and  as  soft  as  if  he 
had  had  numerous  observers  to  propitiate ;  nor  did  he 
relapse,  after  being  thus  awakened  ;  but  clearing  his 
'"ace,  like  one  who  bethought  himself  that  it  might  oth- 
erwise wrinkle  and  tell  tales,  went  smiling  on,  as  if  fof 
\^ractice. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  233 

Perhaps  vviih  an  eye  to  first  impression.'',  Mr.  Carket 
was  very  carefully  and  trimly  dressed,  that  morning. 
Though  always  somewhat  formal  in  his  dress,  in  imita- 
tion of  the  great  man  whom  he  served,  he  stopped  short 
of  the  extent  of  Mr.  Dorabey's  stiffness :  at  once,  per- 
haps, because  he  knew  it  to  be  ludicrous,  and  because 
in  doing  so  he  found  another  means  of  expressing  hig 
sense  of  the  ditfenince  and  distance  between  them. 
Some  people  quoted  him  indeed,  in  this  respect,  as  a 
pointed  commentary,  and  not  a  flattering  one,  on  his  icy 
patron  —  but  the  world  is  prone  to  misconstruction,  and 
Mr.  Carker  was  not  accountable  for  its  bad  propensity. 

Clean  and  florid :  with  his  light  complexion,  fading  aa 
it  were,  in  the  sun,  and  his  dainty  step  enhancing  the 
softness  of  the  turf:  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  strolled 
about  meadows,  and  green  lanes,  and  glided  among  ave- 
nues of  trees,  until  it  was  time  to  return  to  breakfast. 
Taking  a  nearer  way  back,  Mr.  Carker  pursued  it,  air- 
ing his  teeth,  and  said  aloud  as  he  did  so,  "  Now  to  see 
the  second  Mrs.  Dombey  ! " 

He  had  strolled  beyond  the  town,  and  reentered  it 
by  a  pleasant  walk,  where  there  was  a  deep  shade  of 
leafy  trees,  and  where  there  were  a  few  benches  here 
and  there  for  those  who  chose  to  rest.  It  not  being  a 
place  of  general  resort  at  any  hour,  and  wearing  at  that 
time  of  the  still  morning  the  air  of  being  quite  deseited 
and  retired,  Mr.  Carker  had  it,  or  thought  he  had  it,  all 
to  himself.  So,  with  the  whim  of  an  idle  man,  to  whom 
there  yet  remained  twenty  minutes  for  reaching  a  desti- 
nation easily  accessible  in  ten,  Mr.  Carker  threaded  the 
great  boles  of  the  trees,  and  went  passing  in  and  out, 
l)efore  this  one  and  behind  that,  weaving  a  chain  of 
Sootsteps  on  the  dewy  ground. 


234  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Bat  he  found  he  was  mistaken  in  supposing  there  waa 
no  one  in  the  j^rove,  for  as  he  softly  rounded  the  trunk 
of  one  large  tree,  on  which  the  obdurate  bark  was  knotted 
and  over-lapped  like  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros  or  some 
kindred  monster  of  the  ancient  days  before  the  flood,  he 
Baw  an  unexpected  figure  sitting  on  a  bench  near  at 
band,  about  which,  in  another  moment,  he  would  have 
wound  the  chain  he  was  making. 

It  was  that  of  a  lady,  elegantly  dressed  and  very 
handsome,  whose  dark  proud  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  and  in  whom  some  passion  or  struggle  was  rag- 
ing. For  as  she  sat  looking  down,  she  held  a  corner 
of  her  under-lip  within  her  mouth,  her  bosom  heaved, 
her  nostril  quivered,  her  head  trembled,  indignant  tears 
were  on  her  cheek,  and  l^er  foot  was  set  upon  the  moss 
as  though  she  would  have  crushed  it  into  nothing.  And 
yet  almost  the  selfsame  glance  that  showed  him  this, 
showed  him  the  selfsame  lady  rising  with  a  scornful 
air  of  weariness  and  lassitude,  and  turning  away  with 
nothing  expressed  in  face  or  figure  but  careless  beauty 
and  imperious  disdain. 

A  withered  and  very  ugly  old  woman,  dressed  not  so 
much  like  a  gypsy  as  like  any  of  that  medley  race  of 
vagabonds  who  tramp  about  the  country,  begging,  and 
stealing,  and  tinkering,  and  weaving  rushes,  by  turns, 
or  all  together,  had  been  observing  the  lady,  too ;  for, 
Rs  she  rose,  this  second  figure,  strangely  confronting  the 
first,  scrambled  up  from  the  ground  —  out  of  it,  it  almost 
appeared  —  and  stood  in  the  way. 

"  Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  my  pretty  lady,"  faid  tho 
old  woman,  munching  with  her  jaws,  as  if  the  Death's 
bead  beneath  her  yellow  skin  were  impatient  to  get 
out 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  285 

**  I  can  tell  it  for  myself,"  was  the  reply. 

•♦  Ay,  ay,  pretty  lady ;  but  not  right.  Ton  didn't 
tell  it  right  when  you  were  sitting  there.  I  see  youl 
Give  me  a  piece  of  silver,  pretty  lady,  and  I'll  tell 
your  fortune  true.  There's  riches,  pretty  lady,  m  your 
face." 

"I  know,"  returned  the  lady,  passing  her  with  a 
dark  smile,  and  a  proud  step.     "  I  knew  it  before." 

"  What !  You  won't  give  me  nothing  ? "  cried  the 
old  woman.  "  You  won't  give  me  nothing  to  tell  your 
fortune,  pretty  lady  ?  How  much  will  you  give  me  not 
to  tell  it,  then  ?  Give  me  something,  or  I'll  call  it  after 
you ! "  croaked  the  old  woman,  passionately. 

Mr.  Carker,  whom  the  lady  was  about  to  pass  close, 
slinking  against  his  tree  as  she  crossed  to  gain  the  path, 
advanced  so  as  to  meet  her,  and  pulling  off  his  hat  as 
she  went  by,  bade  the  old  woman  hold  her  peace.  The 
lady  acknowledged  his  interference  with  an  inclinaticm 
of  the  head,  and  went  her  way. 

"  You  give  me  something  then,  or  I'll  call  it  after 
her ! "  screamed  the  old  woman,  throwing  up  her  arms, 
and  pressing  forward  against  his  outstretched  hand. 
*'  Or  come,"  she  added,  dropping  her  voice  suddenly, 
looking  at  him  earnestly,  and  seeming  in  a  moment  to 
forget  the  object  of  her  wrath,  "  give  me  something,  or 
I'll  call  it  after  you!" 

"  After  me,  old  lady  ?  "  returned  the  manager,  putting 
his  hand  in  his   pocket. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  steadfast  in  her  scrutiny,  and 
holding  out  her  shrivelled  hand.     "  /  know !  " 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  demanded  Carker,  throwing 
ner  a  shilling.  "  Do  you  know  who  the  handsome  lady 
ifl?" 


236  DOMBEY-  AND   SON. 

Munclii  ig  like  that  sailor's  wife  of  yore,  who  had 
chestnuts  in  her  lap,  and  scowling  like  the  witch  who 
asked  for  some  in  vain,  the  old  woman  picked  the  shil- 
ling up,  and  going  backwards,  like  a  crab,  or  like  a 
heap  of  crabs :  for  her  alternately  expanding  and  con- 
tracting hands  might  have  represented  two  of  that 
species,  and  her  creeping  face,  some  half  a  dozen  more: 
crouched  on  the  veinous  root  of  an  old  tree,  pulled  out 
a  short  black  pipe  from  within  the  crown  of  her  bonnet, 
lighted  it  with  a  match,  and  smoked  in  silence,  looking 
fixedly  at  her  questioner. 

Mr.  Carker  laughed,  and  turned  upon  his  heel. 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  old  woman.  "  One  child  dead,  and 
one  child  living :  one  wife  dead,  and  one  wife  coming. 
Go  and  meet  her ! " 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  manager  looked  round  again, 
and  stopped.  Tiie  old  woman,  who  had  not  removed 
her  pipe,  and  was  munching  and  mumbling  while  siie 
smoked,  as  if  in  conversation  with  an  invisible  familiar, 
pointed  with  her  finger  in  the  direction  he  was  going, 
and  laughed. 

"  What  was  that  you  said,  Beldamite  ?  "  he  demanded. 

The  woman  mumbled,  and  chattered,  and  smoked,  and 
still  pointed  before  him ;  but  remained  silent.  Mutter- 
ing a  fai'ewell  that  was  not  complimentary,  Mr.  Carker 
pursued  his  way ;  but  as  he  turned  out  of  that  place,  and 
looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree,  he 
could  yet  see  the  finger  pointing  before  him,  and  thought 
he  heard  the  woman  screaming,  "  Go  and  meet  her ! " 

Preparations  for  a  choice  repast  were  completed  he 
found,  at  the  hotel ;  and  Mr.  Dorabey,  and  the  major, 
luid  the  breakfast,  were  awaiting  the  ladies.  Individual 
wnatitution  has  much   to  do  with  the  d«'.veloDraent  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  237 

Buch  fac(p,  no  doubt ;  but  in  this  case,  appetite  carried  it 
hollow  over  (he  tender  passion  ;  Mr.  Dombey  being  very 
cool  and  collected,  and  the  major  fretting  and  fuming  in 
R  state  of  violent  heat  and  irritation.  At  length  the  door 
was  thrown  open  by  the  native,  and,  after  a  pause,  occu- 
pied by  her  languishing  along  the  gallery,  a  very  bloom 
ing,  but  not  a  very  youthful  lady  appeared. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  lady,  '*  I  am  afraid 
we  are  late,  but  Edith  has  been  out  already  looking  for 
a  favorable  point  of  view  for  a  sketch,  and  kept  me  wait- 
ing for  her.  Falsest  of  majors,"  giving  him  her  little 
fin<;er,  "  how  do  you  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  let  me  gratify 
my  friend  Carker :  "  Mr.  Dombey  unconsciously  empha- 
sized the  word  friend,  as  saying  "  no  really ;  I  do  allow 
him  To>  lake  credit  for  that  distinction;"  "by  presenting 
him  to  you.     You  have  heard  me  mention  Mr.  Carker." 

"  I  am  charmed,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  gra- 
ciously. 

Mr.  Carker  was  charmed,  of  course.  Would  he  have 
been  more  charmed  on  Mr.  Dombey's  behalf,  if  Mrs. 
Skewton  liad  been  (as  he  at  first  supposed  her)  the 
Edith   whom  they  had  toasted  overnight  ? 

"  Why,  where,  for  Heaven's  sake  is  Edith  ? "  ex* 
claimed  Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  round.  "  Still  at  the 
door,  giving  Withers  orders  about  the  mounting  of  those 
drawings !  My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,  will  you  have  the 
kindness  "  — 

Mr.  Dombey  was  already   gone   to  seek   her.     Next 
moment  he  returned,  bearing  on  his  arm  the  same  ele- 
gantly dressed  and  very  handsome  lady  whom  Mr.  Car- 
leer  had  encountered  underneath  the  trees. 
'    "  Carker "  —  began  Mr.  Dombey.     But  their  recog 


838  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

nition  of  each  other  was  so  manifest,  that  Mr.  Dombe;^ 
stopped  surprised. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  the  gentleman,"  said  Edith,  with  a 
stately  bend,  "  for  sparing  me  some  annoyancfe  from  an 
importunate  beggar  just  now." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  my  good  fortune,"  said  Mr.  Carker, 
bowing  low,  "  for  the  opportunity  of  rendering  so  slight 
B  service  to  one  whose  servant  I  am  proud  to  be." 

As  her  eye  rested  on  him  for  an  instant,  and  then 
lighted  on  the  ground,  he  saw  in  its  bright  and  searching 
glance  a  suspicion  that  he  had  not  come  up  at  the  mo- 
ment of  his  interference,  but  had  secretly  observed  her 
booner.  As  he  saw  that,  she  saw  in  his  eye  that  her 
distrust  was  not  without  foundation. 

"  Really,"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  taken  this 
opportunity  of  inspecting  Mr.  Carker  through  her  glass, 
and  satisfying  herself  (as  she  lisped  audibly  to  the 
major)  that  he  was  all  heart ;  "  really  now,  this  is  one 
of  the  most  enchanting  coincidences  that  I  ever  heard 
of.  The  idea !  My  dearest  Edith,  there  is  such  an 
obvious  destiny  in  it,  that  really  one  might  almost  be 
induced  to  cross  one's  arms  upon  one's  frock,  and  say, 
like  those  wicked  Turks,  there  is  no  What's-his  name  but 
Thingummy,  and  What-you-may-call-it  is  his  prophet !  " 

Edith  deigned  no  revision  of  this  extraordinary  quo- 
tation from  the  Koran,  but  Mr.  Dombey  felt  it  necessary 
\o  offer  a  few  polite  remarks. 

"  It  gives  me  great  pleasure,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  with 
cumbrous  gallantry,  "that  a  gentleman  so  nearly  con- 
nected with  myself  as  Carker  is,  should  have  had  th« 
honor  and  happiness  of  rendering  the  least  assistance  to 
Mrs.  Granger. '  Mr.  Dombey  bowed  to  her.  "  But  it 
^ves  me  some  pain,  and  it  occasions  me  to  be  really  en- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  289 

inous  of  Carker ; "  he  unconsciously  laid  stress  on  these 
words,  as  sensible  that  they  must  appear  to  involve  a 
very  surprising  proposition  ;  "  envious  of  Carker,  that  1 
bad  not  that  honor  and  that  happiness  myself."  Mr. 
Dombey  bowed  again.  Edith,  saving  fci  a  curl  of  her 
lip,  was  motionless. 

"  By  the  Lord,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  bursting  into 
speech  at  sight  of  the  waiter,  who  was  come  to  announce 
breakfast,  "  it's  an  extraordinary  thing  to  me  that  no  one 
can  have  the  honor  and  happiness  of  shooting  all  such 
beggars  tlirough  the  head  without  being  brought  to  book 
for  it.  But  here's  an  arm  for  Mrs.  Granger,  if  she'll  do 
J.  B.  the  honor  to  accept  it ;  and  the  greatest  service 
Joe  can  render  you,  ma'am,  just  now,  is,  to  lead  you  in 
to  table ! " 

With  this,  the  major  gave  his  arm  to  Edith ;  Mr. 
Dombey  led  the  way  with  Mrs.  Skewton ;  Mr.  Carker 
went  last,  smiling  on  the  party. 

"  I  am  quite  rejoiced,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  the  lady- 
mother,  at  breakfast,  after  another  approving  survey  of 
him  through  her  glass,  "  that  you  have  timed  your  visit 
so  happily,  as  to  go  with  us  to-day.  It  is  the  most  en- 
chanting expedition !  " 

"  Any  expedition  would  be  enchanting  in  such  society," 
returned  Carker  ;  "  but  I  believe  it  is,  in  itself,  full  of 
interest." 

"  Oil !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  faded  little  scream 
of  rapture,  "  the  castle  is  charming  !  —  associations  of  the 
middle  ages  —  and  all  that  —  which  is  so  truly  exqui- 
site. Don't  you  dote  upon  the  middle  ages,  Mr  Car- 
ker?" 

"  Very  ranch,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  (barker. 

"Such  charming  times!"  cried  Cleopatra.     "So  full 


SJ40  130MBET  AND  SON. 

of  faith  !  So  vigorous  and  forcible  !  So  picturesque  : 
So  perfectly  removed  from  commonplace  !  Oh  dear ! 
If  they  would  only  leave  us  a  little  more  of  the  poetry 
of  existence  in  these  terrible  days  !  " 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  looking^  sharp  after  Mr.  Dorabey 
rII  the  time  she  said  this,  who  was  looking  at  Edith : 
who  was  listening,  but  who  never  lifted  up  her  eyes. 

"We  are  dreadfully  real,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton  ;  "  are  we  not  ?  " 

Few  people  had  less  reason  to  complain  of  their  re- 
ality than  Cleopatra,  who  had  as  much  that  was  false 
about  her  as  could  well  go  to  the  composition  of  anybody 
with  a  real  individual  existence.  But  Mr.  Carker  com- 
miserated our  reality  nevertheless,  and  agreed  that  we 
were  very  hardly  used  in  that  regard. 

"  Pictures  at  the  castle,  quite  divine ! "  said  Cleopa- 
tra.    "  I  hope  you  dote  upon  pictures  ?  " 

"I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Skewton,'  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  solemn  encouragement  of  his  manager,  "  that  Car- 
ker has  a  very  good  taste  for  pictures  ;  quite  a  natural 
power  of  appreciating  them.  He  is  a  very  creditable 
artist  himself.  He  will  be  delighted,  I  am  sure,  with 
Mrs.  Granger's  taste  and  skill." 

"Damme,  sir!"  cried  Major  Bagstock,  "my  opinion 
is,  that  you're  the  admirable  Carker,  and  can  do  any- 
thing." 

"  Oh  !  "  smiled  Carker,  with  humility,  "  you  are  much 
too  sanguine.  Major  Bagstock.  I  can  do  very  little. 
But  Mr.  Dombey  is  so  generous  in  his  estimation  of  any 
trivial  accomplishment  a  man  like  myself  may  find  it 
almost  necessary  to  acquire,  and  to  which,  in  his  very 
different  sphere,  he  is  far  superior,  that  "  —  Mr.  Carker 
Bhrugged  his  shoulders,  deprecating  further  praise,  and 
said  no  more. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  241 

All  this  time,  Edith  never  raised  her  eyes,  unless  to 
[rlance  towards  her  mother  when  that  lady's  fervent  spirit 
shone  forth  in  words.  But  as  Carker  ceased,  she  looked 
at  Mr.  Dombey  for  a  moment  For  a  moment  only ; 
but  with  a  transient  gleam  of  scornful  wonder  on  her 
face,  not  lost  on  one  observer,  who  was  smiling  round 
the  board. 

Mr.  Dombey  caught  the  dark  eyelash  in  its  descent, 
and  took  the  opportunity  of  arresting  it. 

"  You  have  been  to  Warwick  often,  unfortunately  ?  " 
said  I\Ir.  Dombey. 

"  Several  times." 

*■'•  The  visit  will  be  tedious  to  you,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Oh  no  ;  not  at  all." 

"  Ah  !  You  are  like  your  cousin  Feenix,  my  dearest 
Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "  He  has  been  to  "Warwick 
Castle  jfifty  times,  if  he  has  been  there  once ;  yet  if  he 
came  to  Leamington  to-morrow  —  I  wish  he  would,  dear 
angel !  —  he  would  make  his  fifty-second  visit  next  day." 

"We  are  all  enthusiastic,  are  we  not,  mama?"  said 
Eklith,  with  a  cold  smile. 

"  Too  much  so,  for  our  peace,  perhaps,  my  dear,"  re- 
turned her  mother  ;  "  but  we  won't  complain.  Our  own 
emotions  are  our  recompense.  If,  as  your  cousin  Feenix 
says,  the  sword  wears  out  the  what's-its-name  "  — 

"  The  scabbard,  perhaps,"  said  Edith. 

"  Exactly  —  a  little  too  fast,  it  is  because  it  is  bright 
and  glowing,  you  know,  my  dearest  love." 

Mrs.  Skewton  heaved  a  gentle  sigh,  supposed  to  cast  a 
shadow  on  the  surface  of  that  dagger  of  lath,  whereof  her 
susceptible  bosom  was  the  sheath  ;  and  leaning  her  head 
on  one  side,  in  the  Cleopatra  manner  looked  with  pensive 
tfiection  on  her  darling  child. 

VOL  u.  16 


242  DOMBEY  AND   SON^. 

Edith  had  turned  her  face  towards  Mr.  Dorabey  when 
be  first  addressed  her,  and  had  remained  in  that  attitude, 
while  speaking  to  her  mother,  and  while  her  mother 
spoke  to  her,  as  though  offering  him  her  attention,  if  he 
had  anything  more  to  say.  There  was  something  in  tho 
manner  of  this  simple  courtesy  :  almost  defiant,  and  giv- 
ing it  the  character  of  being  rendered  on  compulsion,  or 
as  a  matter  of  traffic  to  which  she  was  a  reluctant  party : 
again  not  lost  upon  that  same  observer  who  was  smiling 
round  the  board.  It  set  him  thinking  of  her  as  he  had 
first  seen  her,  when  she  had  believed  herself  to  be  alone 
among  the  trees. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  nothing  else  to  say,  proposed  — 
the  breakfast  being  now  finished,  and  the  major  gorged, 
like  any  boa  constrictor  —  that  they  should  start.  A 
barouche  being  in  waiting,  according  to  the  orders  of 
that  gentleman,  the  two  ladies,  the  major  and  himself, 
took  their  seats  in  it :  the  native  and  the  wan  page 
mounted  the  box,  Mr.  Towlinson  being  left  behind ;  and 
Mr.  Carker,  on  horseback,  brought  up  the  rear. 

Mr.  Carker  cantered  behind  tiie  carriage,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  watched  it,  during  all 
the  ride,  as  if  he  were  a  cat,  indeed,  and  its  four  occu- 
pants, mice.  Whether  he  looked  to  one  side  of  the  road, 
or  to  the  other  —  over  distant  landscape,  with  its  smooth 
undulations,  wind-mills,  corn,  grass,  bean-fields,  wild- 
flowers,  farm-yards,  hay -ricks,  and  the  spire  among  the 
wood  —  or  upward  in  the  sunny  air,  where  butterflies 
were  sporting  round  his  head,  and  birds  were  pouring  out 
their  songs  —  or  downward,  where  the  shadows  of  the 
branches  interlaced,  and  made  a  trembling  carpet  on  the 
road-  — or  on  ward,  where  the  overhanging  trees  formed 
aisles  and  arches,  dim  with  the  softened  light  that  steeped 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  243 

Ihrougli  leaves  —  one  corner  of  his  eye  was  ever  on  the 
formal  head  of  Mr.  Dombey,  addressed  towards  him,  and 
ihe  feather  in  the  bonnet,  drooping  so  neglectfully  and 
scornfully  between  them :  much  as  he  had  seen  the. 
haughty  eyelids  droop  ;  not  least  so,  when  the  face  met 
that  now  fronting  it.  Once,  and  once  only,  did  his  waiy 
glance  release  these  objects ;  and  that  was,  when  a  leap 
over  a  low  hedge,  and  a  gallop  across  a  field,  enabled 
him  to  anticipate  the  carriage  coming  by  the  road,  and  to 
be  standing  ready,  at  the  journey's  end,  to  hand  the  ladies 
out.  Then,  and  but  then,  he  met  her  glance  for  an  in- 
Btant  in  her  first  surprise ;  but  when  he  touched  her,  in 
alighting,  with  his  soft  white  hand,  it  overlooked  him 
altogether  as  before. 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  bent  on  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Car- 
ker  herself,  and  showing  him  the  beauties  of  the  Castle. 
She  was  determined  to  have  his  arm,  and  the  major's 
loo.  It  would  do  that  incorrigible  creature :  who  was 
the  most  barbarous  infidel  in  point  of  poetry :  good  to  be 
in  such  company.  This  chance  arrangement  left  Mr. 
Dombey  at  liberty  to  escort  Edith  :  which  he  did  :  stalk- 
ing before  them  through  the  apartments  with  a  gentle- 
manly solemnity. 

"  Those  darling  by-gone  times,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Cleo- 
patra, "  with  their  delicious  fortresses,  and  their  dear  old 
dungeons,  and  their  delightful  places  of  torture,  and  their 
romantic  vengeances,  and  their  picturesque  assaults  and 
Bioges,  and  everything  that  makes  life  truly  charming ! 
How  dreadfully  we  have  degenerated  !  " 

"  Yes,  we  have  fallen  off  deplorably,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

The  peculiarity  of  their  conversation  was,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton,  in  spite  of  her  ecstasies,  and  Mr.  Carker,  in 
spite  of  his  urbanity,  were  both  intent  on  watching  Mr 


244  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Dorabey  and  Edith.  With  all  their  conversati(mal  en- 
dowments, they  spoke  somewhat  distractedly,  and  a( 
random  iu  consequence. 

"  We  have  no  faith  left,  positively,"  said  Mrs.  Skewlon, 
advancing  her  shrivelled  ear  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  was  say- 
ing something  to  Edith.  "  We  have  no  faith  in  tiie  dear 
old  barons,  who  were  the  most  delightful  creatures  —  or 
in  the  dear  old  priests,  who  were  the  most  warlike  of 
men  —  or  even  in  the  days  of  that  inestimable  Queen 
Bess,  upon  the  wall  there,  which  were  so  extremely 
golden !  Dear  creature  !  She  was  all  heart !  And  that 
charming  father  of  hers !  I  hope  you  dote  on  Harry  the 
Eighth ! " 

"  I  admire  him  very  much,"  said  Carker. 

"So  bluff!"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "wasn't  he?  So 
burly.  So  truly  English.  Such  a  picture,  too,  he 
makes,  with  his  dear  little  peepy  eyes,  and  his  benev- 
olent chin!"        -'-o   sltji^.;  i'l 

"Ah,  ma'am!"  said'Caiier,  stopping  short;  "but  if 
you  speak  of  pictures,  there's  a  composition  !  What 
gallery  in  the  world  can  produce  the  counterpart  of 
that ! " 

As  the  smiling  gentleman  thus  spake,  he  pointed 
through  a  door-way  to  where  Mr.  Dombey  and  Editli 
were  standing  alone  in  the  centre  of  another  room. 

They  were  not  interchanging  a  word  or  a  look.  Stand- 
ing together,  arm  in  arm,  they  had  the  appearance  of 
being  more  divided  than  if  seas  had  rolled  between  them. 
There  was  a  difference  even  in  the  pride  of  the  two,  that 
removed  them  farther  from  each  other,  than  if  one  had 
been  the  proudest  and  the  other  the  humblest  specimen 
Df  humanity,  in  all  creation.  He,  self-important,  un- 
bending, formal,  austere.     She,  lovely  and  graceful  in 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  245 

an  uncommon  degree,  but  totally  regardless  of  herself 
and  him  and  everything  around,  and  spurning  her  own 
attractions  with  her  haughty  brow  and  lip,  as  if  they 
were  a  badge  or  livery  she  hated.  So  unmatched  were 
they,  and  opposed,  so  forced  and  linked  together  by  a 
chain  which  adverse  hazard  and  mischance  had  forged  : 
that  fancy  might  have  imagined  the  pictures  on  the  walls 
around  tliem,  startled  by  the  unnatural  conjunction,  and 
observant  of  it  in  their  several  expressions.  Grira 
knights  and  warriors  looked  scowling  on  them.  A 
churchman,  with  his  hand  upraised,  denounced  the  mock- 
ery of  such  a  couple  coming  to  God's  altar.  Quiet 
waters  in  landscapes,  with  the  sun  reflected  in  their 
depths,  asked,  if  better  means  of  escape  were  not  at 
hand,  was  there  no  drowning  left?  Ruins  cried,  "Look 
here,  and  see  what  We  are,  wedded  to  uncongenial 
Time ! "  Animals,  opposed  by  nature,  worried  one 
another,  as  a  moral  to  them.  Loves  and  Cupids  took 
to  flight  afi-aid,  and  Martyrdom  had  no  such  torment  in 
its  painted  history  of  suffering. 

Nevertheless,  IMj-s.  Skewton  was  so  charmed  by  the 
Bight  to  which  Mr.  Carker  invoked  her  attention,  that 
she  could  not  refrain  from  saying,  half  aloud,  how 
sweet,  how  veiy  full  of  soul  it  was!  Edith,  overhear- 
ing, looked  round,  and  flushed  indignant  scarlet  to  her 
hair. 

"  My  dearest  Edith  knows  I  was  admiring  her ! "  said 
Cleopatra,  tapping  her,  almost  timidly,  on  the  back  with 
her  parasol.     "  Sweet  pet !  " 

Again  Mr.  Carker  saw  the  strife  he  had  witnessed 
60  unexpectedly  among  the  trees.  Again  he  saw  the 
haughty  languor  and  indifference  come  over  it,  and  hide 
it  like  a  cloud. 


246  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

She  (lid  not  raise  her  eyes  to  liim  ;  but  with  a  slight 
peremptory  motion  of  them,  seemed  to  bid  her  mother 
come  near.  Mrs.  Skewton  thought  it  expedient  to  un- 
derstand the  hint,  and  advancing  quickly,  with  her  two 
cavaliers,  kept  near  her  daughter  from  that  time. 

Mr.  Carker  now,  having  nothing  to  distract  his  atten- 
tion, began  to  discourse  upon  the  pictures,  and  to  select 
the  l>est,  and  point  them  out  to  Mr.  Dombey :  speaking 
with  his  usual  familiar  recognition  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
greatness,  and  rendering  homage  by  adjusting  his  eye- 
glass for  him,  or  finding  out  the  right  place  in  his  cata- 
logue, or  holding  his  stick,  or  the  like.  These  services 
did  not  so  much  originate  with  Mr.  Carker,  in  truth,  as 
with  Mr.  Dombey  himself,  who  was  apt  to  assert  his 
chieftainship  by  saying,  with  subdued  authority,  and  in 
an  easy  way — for  him — "  Here,  Carker,  have  the  good- 
ness to  assist  me,  will  you !"  which  the  smiling  gentleman 
always  did  with  pleasure. 

They  made  the  tour  of  the  pictures,  the  walls,  crow'^ 
nest,  and  so  forth ;  and  as  they  were  still  one  little  party, 
and  the  major  was  rather  in  the  shado,  being  sleepy  dur- 
ing the  process  of  digestion,  Mr.  Carker  became  com- 
municative and  agreeable.  At  first,  he  addressed  him- 
self for  the  most  part  to  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  but  as  that 
sensitive  lady  was  in  such  ecstasies  with  the  works  of 
art,  after  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  she  could  do 
nothing  but  yawn  (they  were  such  perfect  inspirations, 
she  observed  as  a  reason  for  that  mark  of  rapture),  he 
transferred  his  attentions  to  Mr.  Dombey.  Mr.  Dombey 
5i\id  little  beyond  an  occasional  "  Very  true,  Carker,"  or 
"Indeed,  Carker?"  but  he  tacitly  encouraged  Carker  to 
proceed,  and  inwardly  approved  of  his  behavior  very 
much:  deeming  it  as  well  that  somebody  should  talk, 


DOMBEI    AND  SON,  247 

and  thinking  that  his  remarks,  which  wcro,  as  one  might 
Bay,  a  branch  of  the  parent  establi.-hment,  might  amuse 
Mrs.  Granger.  Mr.  Carker,  who  possessed  an  excel- 
lent discretion,  never  took  the  liberty  of  addressing  that 
hidy,  direct ;  but  she  seemed  to  listen,  though  she  never 
looked  at  hira ;  and  once  or  twice,  when  he  was  emphatic 
m  his  peculiar  humility,  the  twilight  smile  stole  over  her 
face,  not  as  a  light,  but  as  a  deep  black  shadow. 

Warwick  Castle  being  at  length  pretty  well  exhausted, 
and  the  major  very  much  so:  to  say  nothing  of  Mrs. 
Skewton,  whose  peculiar  demonstrations  of  delight  had 
become  very  frequent  indeed :  the  carriage  was  again 
put  in  requisition,  and  they  rode  to  several  admired 
points  of  view  in  the  neighborhood.  Mr.  Dorabey  cer- 
emoniously observed  of  one  of  these,  that  a  sketch, 
however  slight,  from  the  fair  hand  of  Mrs.  Granger, 
wQuld  be  a  remembrance  to  him  of  that  agreeable  day: 
though  he  wanted  no  artificial  remembrance,  he  was  sure 
(here  Mr.  Dorabey  made  another  of  his  bows),  which  he 
must  always  highly  value.  "Withers  the  lean  having 
Editii's  sketch-book  under  his  arm,  was  immediately 
called  upon  by  Mrs.  Skewton  to  produce  the  same : 
and  the  carriage  stopped,  that  Edith  migiit  make  the 
drawing,  which  Mr.  Dombey  was  to  put  away  among 
his  treasures. 

"  But  I  am  afraid  I  trouble  you  too  much,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  By  no  means.  Where  would  you  wish  it  taken 
from  ?  "  she  answered,  turning  to  hira  with  the  same 
enforced  attention  as  before. 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  another  bow,  which  cracked  the 
itarch  in  his  cravat,  would  beg  to  leave  .that  to  the 
d.rtist 


848  D0MH15Y    AND   SON. 

"  I  would  rather  you  choose  for  yourself,*  said  Edith 

"  Suppose  then,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  we  say  from 
here.  It  appears  a  good  spot  for  the  purpose,  or  — 
Carker,  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

There  happened  to  be  in  the  foreground,  at  some 
little  distance,  a  grove  of  trees,  not  unlike  that  in  which 
Mr.  Carker  had  made  his  chain  of  footsteps  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  with  a  seat  under  one  tree,  generally  resem- 
bling, in  the  general  character  of  its  situation,  the  point 
where  his  chain  had  broken. 

"  Might  I  venture  to  suggest  to  Mrs.  Granger?"  said 
Carker,  "  that  that  is  an  interesting  —  almost  a  curious 
—  point  of  view  ?  " 

She  followed  the  direction  of  his  riding-whip  with  her 
eyes,  and  raised  them  quickly  to  his  face.  It  was  the 
second  glance  they  had  exchanged  since  their  introduc- 
tion ;  and  would  have  been  exactly  like  the  first,  but 
that  its  expression  was  plainer. 

"Would  you  like  that?"  said  Edith  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"I  shall  be  charmed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  Edith. 

Therefore  the  carriage  was  driven  to  the  spot  where 
Mr.  Dombey  was  to  be  charmed ;  and  Edith,  without 
moving  from  her  seat,  and  opening  her  sketch-book  with 
her  usual  proud  indifference,  began  to  sketch. 

"  My  pencils  are  all  pointless,"  she  said,  stopping  and 
turning  them  over. 

"  Pray  allow  me,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Or  Carker 
will  do  it  better,  as  he  understands  these  things. 
Carker  have  the  goodness  to  see  to  these  pencils  for 
Mrs.  Granger." 

Mr.  Carker  i*ode  up  close  to  the  carriage-door  on 
Mrs.  Granger's  side,  and  letting  the  rein  fall  on  his 
xorse's  neck,  took  the   pencils  from   her  hand  with  fi 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  249 

jmile  and  a  bow,  and  sat  in  the  saddle  leisurely  mend- 
ing them.  Having  done  so  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
hold  them,  and  to  hand  them  to  her  as  they  were  re- 
quired; and  thus  Mr.  Carker,  with  many  commendations 
of  Mrs.  Granger's  extraordinary  skill  —  especially  m 
trees  —  remained  close  at  her  side,  looking  over  the 
drawing  as  she  made  it.  Mr.  Dombey  in  the  mean  time 
stood  bolt  upright  in  the  carriage  like  a  highly  respecta- 
ble ghost,  looking  on  too ;  while  Cleopatra  and  the  major 
dallied  as  two  ancient  doves  might  do. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  that,  or  shall  I  finish  it  a 
little  more  ? "  said  Edith,  showing  the  sketch  to  Mr. 
Dombey. 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  that  it  might  not  be  touched ; 
it  was  perfection. 

"  It  is  most  extraordinary,"  said  Carker,  bringing 
every  one  of  his  red  gums  to  bear  upon  his  praise.  "  I 
was  not  prepared  for  anything  so  beautiful,  and  so  un- 
usual altogether." 

This  might  have  applied  to  the  sketcher  no  less  than 
to  the  sketch  ;  but  Mr.  Carker's  manner  was  openness 
itself —  not  as  to  his  mouth  alone,  but  as  to  his  whole 
spirit.  So  it  continued  to  be  while  the  drawing  was 
laid  aside  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  while  the  sketihing 
materials  were  put  up;  then  he  handed  in  the  pencils 
(which  were  received  with  a  distant  acknowledgment 
of  his  help,  but  without  a  look),  and  tightening  his  rein, 
fell  back,  and  followed  the  carriage  again. 

Thinking,  perhaps,  as  he  rode,  that  even  this  trivial 
f;ketch  had  been  made  and  delivered  to  its  owner,  as  if 
t  had  been  bargained  for  and  bought.  Thinking,  per- 
tiaps,  that  although  she  had  assented  with  such  perfecf 
readiness  to  his  request,  her  haughty  face,  bent  over  the 


250  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

drawing,  or  glancing  at  the  distant  objects  represented 
in  it,  had  been  the  face  of  a  proud  woman,  engaged  in 
a  sordid  and  miserable  transaction.  Thinking,  perhaps, 
of  such  things :  but  smiling  certainly,  and  while  he 
seemed  to  look  about  him  freely,  in  enjoyment  of  the 
air  and  exercise,  keeping  always  that  sharp  corner  of 
his  eye  upon  the  carriage. 

A  stioU  among  the  haunted  ruins  of  Kenilworth,  and 
more  rides  to  more  points  of  view  :  most  of  which,  Mi"S. 
Skewton  reminded  Mr.  Dorabey,  Edith  had  already 
sketched,  as  he  had  seen  in  looking  over  her  drawings: 
brought  the  day's  expedition  to  a  close.  Mi's.  Skewton 
and  Edith  were  driven  to  their  own  lodgings ;  Mr 
Carker  was  graciously  invited  by  Cleopatra  to  return 
thither  with  Mr.  Dorabey  and  the  major,  in  the  even- 
ing, to  hear  some  of  Edith's  music ;  and  the  three  gen- 
tlemen repaired  to  their  hotel  to  dinner. 

The  dinner  was  the  counterpart  of  yesterday's,  except 
that  the  major  was  twenty-four  hours  more  triumpliant 
and  less  mysterious.  Edith  was  toasted  again.  Mr. 
Dombey  was  again  agreeably  embarrassed.  And  Mr. 
Carker  was  full  of  interest  and  praise. 

There  were  no  other  visitors  at  Mrs.  Skewton'a. 
Edith's  drawings  were  strewn  about  the  room,  a  little 
more  abundantly  than  usual  perhaps ;  and  Withers,  the 
wan  page,  handed  round  a  little  stronger  tea.  The  harp 
was  there  ;  the  piano  was  there ;  and  Edith  sang  and 
played.  But  even  the  music  was  paid  by  Edith  to  Mr 
Dombey's  order,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  uncompromising"^ 
way.     As  thus. 

"  Eidith,  my  dearest  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  half  an 
hour  after  lea,  "  Mr.  Dombey  is  dying  to  hear  you,  1 
know."  ^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  251 

**  Mr.  Dombey  has  life  enough  left  to  say  so  for  him- 
lelf,  mama,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  I  shall  be  immensely  obliged,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

♦'What  do  you  wish?" 

"  Piano  ?  "  hesitated  Mr.  Dorabey. 

"  Whatever  you  please.     You  have  only  to  choose." 

Accordingly,  she  began  with  the  piano.  It  was  the 
lame  with  the  harp  ;  the  same  with  her  singing ;  the 
same  with  the  selection  of  the  pieces  that  she  sang  and 
played.  Such  frigid  and  constrained,  yet  prompt  and 
pointed  acquiescence  with  the  wi-hes  he  imposed  upon 
her,  and  on  no  one  else,  was  sufficiently  remarkable  to 
penetrate  through  all  the  mysteries  of  picquet,  and  im- 
press itself  on  Mr.  Carker's  keen  attention.  Nor  did  he 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  evidently 
proud  of  his  power,  and  liked  to  show  it. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Carker  played  so  well  —  some 
games  with  the  major,  and  some  with  Cleopatra,  whose 
vigilance  of  eye  in  respect  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith 
no  lynx  could  liave  surpassed  —  that  he  even  heightened 
his  position  in  the  lady-mother's  good  graces  ;  and  when 
on  taking  leave  he  regretted  that  he  would  be  obliged 
to  return  to  London  next  morning,  Cleopatra  trusted : 
community  of  feeling  not  being  met  with  every  day : 
that  it  was  fa"  from  being  the  last  time  they  would 
meet. 

**  I  hope  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  an  expressive 
bok  at  the  couple  in  the  distance,  as  he  drew  towards 
the  door,  following  the  major.     "  I  think  so." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  taken  a  stately  leave  of  Edith, 
oent,  or  made  some  approach  to  a  bend,  over  Cleopatra's 
couch,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  1  have  requested  Mrs.  Granger's  permission  lo  call 


258  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

on  her  to-morrow  morning  —  for  a  purpose  —  and  she 
has  appointed  twelve  o'clock.  May  I  hope  to  have 
the  pleasure-  of  finding  you  at  home,  madam,  after<* 
wards  ?  " 

Cleopatra  was  so  much  fluttered  and  moved,  by  hear- 
ing this,  of  course  incomprehensible  speech,  that  she 
could  only  shut  her  eyes,  and  shake  her  head,  and  give 
Mr.  Dombey  her  hand  ;  which  Mr.  Dombey,  not  exactly 
knowing  what  to  do  with   dropped. 

"  Dombey,  come  along !  "  cried  the  major  looking  in 
at  the  door.  "  Damme,  sir,  old  Joe  has  a  great  mind  to 
propose  an  alteration  in  the  name  of  the  Royal  Hotel, 
and  that  it  should  be  called  the  Three  Jolly  Bachelors, 
in  honor  of  ourselves  and  Carker."  With  this  the  ma- 
jor slapped  Mr.  Dombey  on  the  back,  and  winking  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  ladies,  with  a  fiightful  tendency  of 
blood  to  the  head,  carried  him  off. 

Mrs.  Skewton  reposed  on  her  sofa,  and  Edith  sat 
apart,  by  her  harp,  in  silence.  The  mother,  trifling 
with  her  fan,  looked  stealthily  at  the  daughter  more 
than  once,  but  flie  daughter,  brooding  gloomily  with 
downcast  eyes,  was  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a  long  hour,  without  a  word, 
until  Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  appeared,  according  to  cus- 
tom, to  prepare  her  gradually  for  night.  At  night,  she 
should  have  been  a  skeleton,  with  dart  and  hour-glass, 
rather  than  a  woman,  this  attendant ;  for  her  touch  was 
as  the  touch  of  Death.  The  painted  object  shi-i  veiled 
nndeiTieath  her  hand  ;  the  form  collapsed,  the  hair  ~ 
dropped  off",  the  arched  dark  eyebrows  changed  to  scanty 
liifts  of"  gray ;  the  pale  lips  shrunk,  the  skin  became 
cadaverous  and  loose ;  and  old,  worn,  yellow  nodding 
woman,   with  red  eyes,  alone  remained    in   Cleopatra  a 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  253 

place,  huddled  up,  like  a  slovenly  bundle,  in  a  greasy 
flannel  gown. 

The  very  voice  was  changed,  as  it  addressed  Edith, 
when  they  were  alone  again. 

"  "Why  don't  you  tell  me,"  it  said,  sharply,  "  that  be  k- 
coming  here  to-morrow  by  appointment  ?  " 

"  Because  you  know  it,"  returned  Edith,  "  mother.'* 

The  mocking  empliasis  she  laid  on  that  one  word ! 

"  You  know  he  has  bought  me,"  she  resumed.  **  Or 
that  he  will,  to-morrow.  He  has  considered  of  his  bar- 
gain ;  he  has  shown  it  to  his  friend  ;  he  is  even  rather 
proud  of"  it ;  he  thinks  that  it  will  suit  him,  and  may  be 
had  sufficiently  cheap ;  and  he  will  buy  to-morrow.  God, 
that  I  have  lived  for  this,  and  that  I  feel  it! " 

Compress  into  one  handsome  face  the  conscious  self- 
abasement,  and  the  burning  indignation  of  a  hundred 
women,  strong  in  passion  and  in  pride ;'  and  there  it 
hid  itself  with  two  white  shuddering  arms. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  returned  the  angry  mother. 
"  Haven't  you  from  a  child  "  — 

"  A  child  !  "  said  Edith,  looking  at  her,  "  when  was  1 
a  child !  What  childhood  did  you  ever  leave  to  me  ? 
I  was  a  woman  —  artful,  designing,  mercenary,  laying 
snares  for  men  —  before  I  knew  myself,  or  you,  or  even 
understood  the  base  and  wretched  aim  of  every  new  dis- 
\)lay  I  leiU'nt.  You  gave  birth  to  a  woman.  Look  upon 
Ler.     She  is  in  her  pride  to-night." 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  struck  her  hand  upon  her 
beautiful  bosom,  as  though  she  would  have  beaten  down 
herself, 

"  Look  at  me,"  she  said,  "  who  have  never  known 
what  it  is  to  have  an  honest  heart,  and  love.  Look  at 
me,  taught  to  scheme  and  plot  when  children  play,  and 


254  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

married  in  my  youth  —  an  old  age  of  design  —  to  one 
for  whom  I  had  no  feeling  but  indifference.  Look  at 
me,  whom  he  left  a  widow,  dying  before  his  inheritance 
descended  to  him  —  a  judgment  on  you  !  well  deserved  I 
—  and  tell  me  what  has  been  my  life  for  ten  years 
since." 

"  We  have  been  making  every  effort  to  endeavor  to 
secure  to  you  a  good  estabhshraent,"  rejoined  her  mother. 
**  That  has  been  your  life.    And  now  you  have  got  it." 

"  There  is  no  slave  in  a  market,  there  is  no  horse  in  a 
fair,  so  shown  and  offered  and  examined  and  paraded, 
mother,  as  I  have  been,  for  ten  shameful  years,"  cried 
Edith,  with  a  burning  brow,  and  the  same  bitter  empha- 
sis on  the  one  word.  "  Is  it  not  so  ?  Have  I  been  made 
the  by -word  of  all  kinds  of  men  ?  Have  fools,  have 
profligates,  have  boys,  have  dotards,  dangled  after,»me, 
and  one  by  one  rejected  me,  and  fallen  off,  because  you 
were  too  plain  with  all  your  cunning  — ■  yes,  and  too 
true,  with  all  those  false  pretences  —  until  we  have  al- 
most come  to  be  notorious  ?  The  license  of  look  and 
touch,"  she  said,  with  flashing  eyes,  "  have  I  submitted 
to  it,  in  half  the  places  of  resort  upon  the  map  of  Eng- 
land ?  Have  I  been  hawked  and  vended  here  and  there, 
until  the  last  grain  of  self-respect  is  dead  within  me,  and 
I  loathe  myself?  Has  this  been  my  late  childhood?  I 
bad  none  before.  Do  not  tell  me  that  I  had,  to-night, 
of  all  nights  in  ray  life ! " 

"  You  might  have  been  well  married/'  said  her  mother, 
»'  twenty  times  at  least,  EMith,  if  you  had  given  encour-  . 
Rgement  enough." 

"  No !  Who  takes  me,  refuse  that  I  am,  and  as  I  well 
deserve  to  be,"  she  answered,  raising  her  head,  and 
trembling  in  her  energy  of  shame  and   stormy  pride. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  255 

"  shall  take  me,  as  this  man  does,  with  no  art  of  mine 
put  forth  to  lure  him.  He  sees  me  at  the  auction,  and 
he  thinks  it  well  to  buy  me.  Let  him !  When  he  came 
to  view  me  —  perhaps  to  bid  —  he  required  to  see  the 
roll  of  my  accomplishments.  I  gave  it  to  him.  When 
he  would  have  me  show  one  of  them,  to  justify  his  pur^ 
chase  to  his  men,  I  require  of  him  to  say  which  he  de- 
mands, anc!  I  exhibit  it.  I  will  do  no  more.  He  makes 
the  purchase  of  his  own  will,  and  with  his  own  sense  of 
its  worth,  and  the  power  of  his  money ;  and  I  hope  it 
may  never  disappoint  him.  /  have  not  vaunted  and 
pressed  the  bargain  :  neither  have  you,  so  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  prevent  you." 

"  You  talk  strangely  to-night,  Edith,  to  your  own 
mother." 

"  It  seems  so  to  me ;  stranger  to  me  than  you,"  said 
Edith.  "  But  my  education  was  completed  long  ago.  I 
am  too  old  now,  and  have  fallen  too  low,  by  degrees,  to 
take  a  new  course,  and  to  stop  yours,  and  to  help  myself. 
The  germ  of  all  that  purifies  a  woman's  breast,  and 
makes  it  true  and  good,  has  never  stirred  in  mine,  and  I 
have  nothing  else  to  sustain  me  when  I  despise  myself." 
There  had  been  a  touching  sadness  in  her  voice,  but  it 
was  gone,  when  she  went  on  to  say,  **  So,  as  we  are  gen- 
teel and  poor,  I  am  content  that  we  should  be  made  rich 
by  these  means  ;  all  I  say  is,  I  have  kept  the  only  pur- 
pose I  have  had  the  strength  to  form  —  I  had  almoet 
Baid  the  power,  with  you  at  my  side,  mother  —  and  have 
not  tempted  this  man  on." 

"  This  man  !  You  speak,"  said  her  mother,  "  as  if  yOD 
hated  him." 

"And  you  thought  I  loved  him,  did  you  not?"  she 
answered,  stopping  on'  her  way  across  the   room,  and 


256  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

looking  round.  "Shall  I  tell  you,"  she  Bcntinued,  wift 
her  eyes  fixed  on  her  mother,  "  who  already  knows  ua 
thoroughly,  and  reads  us  right,  and  before  whom  I  have 
even  less  of  self-respect  or  confidence  than  before  my 
own  inward  self:  being  so  much  degraded  by  his  knowl- 
e<lge  of  me  ?  " 

"  This  is  an  attack,  I  suppose,"  returned  her  mother, 
coldly,  "  on  poor,  unfortunate  what's-his-narae  —  Mr. 
Carker !  Your  want  of  self-respect  and  confidence,  my 
dear,  in  reference  to  that  person  (who  is  very  agreeable, 
it  strikes  me),  is  not  likely  to  have  much  effect  on  your 
establishment.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  hard  ?  Are 
you  ill?" 

Edith  suddenly  let  fall  her  face,  as  if  it  had  been 
Btung,  and  while  she  pressed  her  hands  upon  it,  a  ter- 
rible tremble  crept  over  her  whole  frame.  It  was 
quickly  gone ;  and  with  her  usual  step  she  passed  out 
of  the  room. 

The  maid,  who  should  have  been  a  skeleton,  tl»en  re- 
appeared, and  giving  one  arm  to  her  mistress,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  taken  off  her  manner  with  her  cliarms, 
and  to  have  put  on  paralysis  with  her  flannel  gown,  col- 
lected the  ashes  of  Cleopatra,  and  carried  thera  away, 
ready  for  to-morrow's  revivificati<m. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  257 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 


ALTERATIONS. 


"So  the  day  has  come  at  length,  Susan,"  said  Florence 
to  the  excellent  Nipper,  "when  we  are  going  back  to  our 
quiet  home !  " 

Susan  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  amount  of  expres- 
sion not  easily  described,  and  further  relieving  her  feel- 
ings with  a  smart  cough,  answered,  '"  Very  quiet  indeed, 
Miss  Floy,  no  doubt.     Excessive  so." 

"  When  I  was  a  child,"  said  Florence,  thoughtfully, 
and  after  musing  for  some  moments,  *'  did  you  ever  see 
that  gentleman  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  ride  down 
neie  to  speak  to  me,  now  three  times  —  three  times  I 
think,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Three  times,  miss,"  returned  the  Nipper.  "  Once 
when  you  was  out  a-walking  with  them  Sket"  — 

Florence  gently  looked  at  her,  and  Miss  Nipper 
checked  herself. 

"  With  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady,  I  mean  to  say,  mis8, 
and  the  young  gentleman.  And  two  evenings  since 
then." 

*'  When  I  was  a  child,  and  when  company  used  to 
C5ome  to  visit  papa,  did  you  ever  see  that  gentleman 
at  home,  Susan  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  Well,  miss,"  returned  her  maid,  after  considering, 
•*  I  really  couldn't  say  I  ever  did.  When  your  poor 
VOL    II.  17 


258  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

dear  ma  died,  Miss  Floy,  I  was  very  new  in  the  family, 
you  see,  and  my  element : "  the  Nipper  bridled,  as  opin- 
ing that  her  merits  had  been  always  designedly  ex* 
tinguished  by  Mr.  Dombey :  "  was  the  floor  below  the 
attics." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Florence,  still  thoughtfully  ;  "  yon 
ai-e  not  likely  to  have  known  who  came  to  the  house  I 
quite  forgot." 

"  Not,  miss,  but  what  we  talked  about  the  family  and 
visitors,"  said  Susan,  "  and  but  what  I  heard  much  said, 
although  the  nurse  before  Mrs.  Richards  did  make  un- 
pleasant remarks  when  I  was  in  company,  and  hint  at 
little  Pitchers,  but  that  could  only  be  attributed,  poor 
thing,"  observed  Susan  with  composed  forbearance,  "  to 
habits  of  intoxication,  for  which  she  was  required  to 
leave,  and  did." 

Florence,  who  was  seated  at  her  chamber-window, 
with  her  face  resting  on  her  hand,  sat  looking  out. 
and  hardly  seemed  to  hear  what  Susan  said,  she  was 
so  lost  in  thought. 

"  At  all  events,  miss,"  said  Susan,  "  I  remember  very 
well  that  this  same  gentleman,  Mr.  Carker,  was  alraofiU 
if  not  quite,  as  great  a  gentleman  with  your  papa  then, 
as  he  is  now.  It  used  to  be  said  in  the  house  then, 
miss,  that  he  was  at  the  head  of  all  your  pa's  aflTairs  in 
the  city,  and  managed  the  whole,  and  that  your  pa 
minded  him  more  than  anybody,  which,  begging  your 
jNardon,  Miss  Floy,  he  might  easy  do,  for  he  never 
minded  anybody  else.  I  knew  that,  Pitcher  as  I  might 
have  been." 

Susan  Nipper,  with  an  injured  remembrance  of  the 
nurse  before  Mrs.  Richards,  emphasized  "  Pitcher ' 
strongly. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  259 

"  And  that  Mr.  Carker  has  not  fallen  off,  miss,"  she 
pursued,  "  but  has  stood  his  gi-ound,  and  kept  his  credit 
with  your  pa,  I  know  from  what  is  always  said  among 
our  people  by  that  Perch,  whenever  he  coraes  to  the 
house,  and  though  he's  the  weakest  weed  in  the  world, 
Miss  Floy,  and  no  one  can  have  a  moment's  patience 
with  the  man,  he  knows  what  goes  on  in  the  City  toler- 
able well,  and  says  that  your  pa  does  nothing  without 
Mr.  Carker,  and  leaves  all  to  Mr.  Carker,  and  acts  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Carker,  and  has  Mr.  Carker  always  at 
his  elbow,  and  I  do  believe  that  he  believes  (that  wash- 
iest of  Perches)  that  after  your  pa,  the  Emperor  of  India 
is  the  child  unborn  to  Mr.  Carker." 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  lost  on  Florence,  who,  with  an 
awakened  interest  in  Susan's  speech,  no  longer  gazed 
abstractedly  on  the  prospect  without,  but  looked  at  her, 
and  listened  with  attention. 

"  Yes,  Susan,"  she  said,  when  that  young  lady  had 
concluded.  "He  is  in  papa's  confidence,  and  is  hia 
friend,  I  am  sure." 

Florence's  mind  ran  high  on  this  theme,  and  had  done 
for  some  days.  Mr.  Carker,  in  the  two  visits  with  which 
he  had  followed  up  his  first  one,  had  assumed  a  confi- 
dence between  himself  and  her  —  a  right  on  his  part 
to  be  mysterious  and  stealthy,  in  telling  her  that  the 
ship  was  still  unheard  of — a  kind  of  mildly  restrained 
{K)wer,  and  authority  over  her  —  that  made  her  wonder, 
njid  caused  her  great  uneasiness.  Slie  had  no  means 
of  repelling  it,  or  of  freeing  herself  from  the  web  he 
was  gradually  winding  about  her ;  for  that  would  have 
required  some  art  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  opposed 
v'o  such  address  as  his ;  and  Florence  had  none.  True, 
he  had   said  no  more  to   her  than  that  there  was  n« 


260  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

news  of  the  ship,  and  that  he  feared  the  worst ;  but 
how  he  came  to  know  that  she  was  interested  in  the 
ship,  and  why  he  had  the  right  to  signify  his  knowledge 
to  her,  so  insidiously  and  darkly,  troubled  Florence  very 
much. 

This  conduct  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Carker,  and  htf 
habit  of  often  considering  it  with  wonder  and  uneasi- 
ness, began  to  invest  him  with  an  uncomfortable  fasci- 
nation in  Florence's  thoughts.  A  more  distinct  remem- 
brance of  his  features,  voice,  and  manner :  which  she 
sometimes  courted,  as  a  means  of  reducing  him  to  the 
level  of  a  real  personage,  capable  of  exerting  no  greater 
charm  over  her  than  another :  did  not  remove  the  vague 
impression.  And  yet  he  never  frowned,  or  looked  upon 
her  with  an  air  of  dislike  or  animosity,  but  was  always 
smiling  and  serene. 

Again,  Florence,  in  pursuit  of  her  strong  purpose 
with  reference  to  her  father,  and  her  steady  resolution 
to  believe  that  she  was  herself  unwittingly  to  blame  for 
their  so  cold  and  distant  relations,  would  recall  to  mind 
that  this  gentleman  was  his  confidential  friend,  and  would 
think,  with  an  anxious  heart,  could  her  struggling  ten- 
dency to  dislike  and  fear  him  be  a  part  of  that  misfor- 
)Une  in  her,  which  had  turned  her  father's  love  adrift, 
ind  left  her  so  alone  ?  She  dreaded  that  it  might  be  ; 
sometimes  believed  it  was :  then  she  resolved  that  she 
would  try  to  conquer  this  wrong  feeling ;  persuaded 
herself  that  she  was  honored  and  encouraged  by  the 
notice  of  her  father's  friend !  and  hoped  that  patient 
observation  of  him  and  trust  in  him  would  lead  her 
bleeding  feet  along  that  stony  road  which  ended  in  her 
father's  heart. 

Thus,  with  no  one  to  advise  her  —  for  she  could  ad- 


DOMBET   AND  SON.  261 

vise  with  no  one  without  seeming  to  complain  against 
him  —  gentle  Florence  tossed  on  an  uneasy  sea  of  doubt 
and  hope  ;  and  Mr.  Carker,  like  a  scaly  monster  of  the 
deep,  swam  down  below,  and  kept  his  shining  eye  upon 
her. 

Florence  had  a  new  reason  in  all  this  for  wishing  to 
"be  at  home  again.  Her  lonely  life  was  better  suited  to 
her  course  of  timid  hope  and  doubt :  and  she  feared 
sometimes,  that  in  her  absence  she  might  miss  some 
hopeful  chance  of  testifying  her  affection  for  her  father. 
Heaven  knows,  she  might  have  set  her  mind  at  rest, 
poor  child  !  on  this  last  point ;  but  her  slighted  love 
was  fluttering  within  her,  and,  even  in  her  sleep,  it  flew 
away  in  dreams,  and  nestled,  like  a  wandering  bird  come 
home,  upon  her  father's  neck. 

Of  Walter  she  thought  often.  Ah  !  how  often,  when 
the  night  was  gloomy,  and  the  wind  was  blowing  round 
the  house !  But  hope  was  strong  in  her  breast.  It  is 
BO  difficult  for  the  young  and  ardent,  even  with  such 
experience  as  hers,  to  imagine  youth  and  ardor  quenclied 
like  a  weak  flame,  and  the  bright  day  of  life  merging 
into  night,  at  noon,  that  hope  was  strong  yet.  Her  tears 
fell  frequently  for  Walter's  sufferings,  but  rarely  for  his 
supposed  death,  and  never  long. 

She  had  written  to  the  old  Instrument-maker,  but  had 
received  no  answer  to  her  note :  which  indeed  required 
none.  Thus  matters  stood  with  Florence  on  the  morn- 
ing when  she  was  going  home,  gladly,  to  her  old  secluded 
life. 

Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  accompanied  (much  against 
nis  will)  by  theii  valued  charge.  Master  Barnet,  wer« 
already  gone  back  to  Brighton,  where  that  young  gen- 
tleman and  his  fellow  pilgrims  to  Parnassus  were  then 


262  DOMBET   LKD  SON. 

no  doubt,  in  the  continual  resumption  cf  flieir  studiea 
The  holiday  time  was  past  and  over ;  most  of  the  juve- 
nile guests  at  the  villa  had  taken  their  departure ;  and 
Florence's  long  visit  was  come  to  an  end. 

There  was  one  guest,  however,  albeit  not  resident 
within  the  house,  who  had  been  very  constant  in  his 
attention  to  the  family,  and  who  still  remained  devoted 
to  them.  This  was  Mr.  Toots,  who  after  renewing,  some 
weeks  ago,  the  acquaintance  he  had  had  the  happiness 
of  forming  with  Skettles  Junior,  on  the  night  when  he 
burst  the  Blimberian  bonds  and  soared  into  freedom  with 
his  ring  on,  called  regularly  every  other  day,  and  left  a 
perfect  pack  of  cards  at  the  hall-door ;  so  many  indeed, 
that  the  ceremony  was  quite  a  deal  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Toots,  and  a  hand  at  whist  on  the  part  of  the 
servant. 

Mr.  Toots,  likewise,  with  the  bold  and  happy  idea  of 
preventing  the  family  from  forgetting  him  (but  there  is 
reason  to  suppose  that  this  expedient  originated  in  the 
teeming  brain  of  the  Chicken),  had  established  a  six- 
oared  cutter,  manned  by  aquatic  friends  of  the  Chicken's 
and  steered  by  that  illustrious  character  in  person,  who 
wore  a  bright  red  fireman's  coat  for  the  purpose,  and 
concealed  the  perpetual  black  eye  with  which  he  was 
afflicted,  beneath  a  green  shade.  Previous  to  the  insti- 
tution of  this  equipage,  Mr.  Toots  sounded  the  Chicken 
on  a  hypothetical  case,  as,  supposing  the  Chicken  to  be 
enamored  of  a  young  lady  named  Mary,  and  to  have 
conceived  the  intention  of  starting  a  boat  of  his  own, 
what  would  he  call  that  boat?  The  Chicken  replied, 
with  divers  strong  asseverations,  that  he  would  either 
christen  it  Poll  or  the  Chicken's  Delight.  Improving 
on  this  idea.  Mr.  Toots,  after  deep  study  and  the  exer 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2G8 

rise  of  much  invention,  resolved  to  call   his  boat  The 
Toots's  Joy,  as  a  delicate  compliment  to  Florence,  of 
which  no  man  knowing  the  parties,  could  possibly  miss^ 
the  appreciation. 

Stretched  on  a  crimsoned  cushion  in  his  gallant  bark 
with  his  shoes  in  the  air,  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  exercise  of 
bis  project,  had  come  up  the  river,  day  after  day,  and 
week  after  week,  and  had  flitted  to  and  fro,  near  Sir  Bar- 
net's  garden,  and  had  caused  his  crew  to  cut  across  and 
across  the  river  at  sharp  angles,  for  his  better  exhibition 
to  any  lookers-out  from  Sir  Barnet's  windows,  and  had  had 
Buch  evolutions  performed  by  the  Toots's  Delight  as  had 
filled  all  the  neighboring  part  of  the  water-side  with  as- 
tonishment. But  whenever  he  saw  any  one  in  Sir  Bar- 
net's  garden  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  Mr.  Toots  alwayp 
feigned  to  be  passing  there,  by  a  combination  of  coinci* 
dences  of  the  most  singular  and  unlikely  description. 

"  How  are  you.  Toots !  "  Sir  Barnet  would  say,  wav- 
ing his  hand  from  the  lawn,  while  the  artful  Chicken 
steered  close  in  shore. 

"  How  de  do,  Sir  Barnet !  "  Mr.  Toots  would  answer, 
«  What  a  surprising  thing  that  I  should  see  you  here  ? " 

Mr.  Toots,  in  his  sagacity,  always  said  this,  as  i^ 
instead  of  that  being  Sir  Barnet's  house,  it  were  some 
deserted  edifice  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  or  Ganges. 

*'I  never  was  so  surprised!"  Mr.  Toots  would  ex- 
claim. —  "  Is  Miss  Dombey  there  ?  " 

Whereupon  Florence  would  appear,   perhaps. 

«0h,  Diogenes  is  quite  well,  Miss  Dombey,"  Mr. 
Toots  would  cry.     "  I  called  to  ask  this  morning." 

"  Thank  you  very  much ! "  the  pleasant  voice  of  Flor- 
ence would  reply. 

•♦  Won't  you  come  ashore,  Toots  ?"  Sir  Barnet  would 


264  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

lay  then.  "  Come  !  you're  in  no  huny.  Come  and  sec 
us." 

~  "  Oh  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank  you  ! "  Mr.  Tootfl 
would  blushingly  rejoin.  "I  thought  Miss  Dombey 
might  like  to  know,  that's  all.  Grood-by  ! "  And  poor 
Mr.  Toots,  who  was  dying  to  accept  the  invitation,  h\A 
hadn't  the  courage  to  do  it,  signed  to  the  Chicken,  with 
an  aching  heart,  and  away  went  the  Delight,  cleaving 
the  water  like  an  arrow. 

The  Delight  was  lying  in  a  state  of  extraordinaiy 
splendor,  at  the  garden-steps,  on  the  morning  of  Flor- 
ence's departure.  Wlien  she  went  down-stairs  to  take 
leave,  after  her  talk  with  Susan,  she  found  Mr.  Toots 
awaiting  her  in  the  dmwing-room. 

"  Oh,  how  de  do.  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  the  stricken 
Toots,  always  dreadfully  disconcerted  when  the  desire 
of  his  heart  was  gained,  and  he  was  speaking  to  her ; 
"thank  you,  I'm  very  well  indeed,  I  hope  you're  the 
same,  so  was  Diogenes  yesterday." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Florence. 

"Thank  you,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retoi'ted  IMr. 
Toots.  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind,  in  this 
fine  weather,  coming  home  by  water,  Miss  Dombey. 
There's  plenty  of  room  in  the  boat  for  your  maid." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  yoii,"  said  Florence,  hesi- 
tating.    "  I  really  am  —  but  I  would  rather  not." 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots. 
"  Good-morning ! " 

"Won't  you  wait  and  see  Lady  Skettles?"  asked 
Florence,  kindly. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  of  no 
consequence  at  all." 

So  shy  was  Mr.  Toots  on  such  occasions,  and  so  flur« 


DOMBET  AND  SON,  265 

ritid  !  But  Lady  Skettles  entering  at  the  moment,  Mr. 
Toots  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  passion  for  asking  her 
how  she  did,  and  hoping  she  was  very  well ;  nor  could 
Mr.  Toots  by  any  possibility  leave  off  shaking  hands 
with  hor,  until  Sir  Barnet  appeared :  to  whom  he  im- 
mediately clung  with  the  tenacity  of  desperation. 

. "  We  are  losing,  to-day,  Toots,"  said  Sir  Bal-net,  tuiTS- 
ing  towards  Florence,  "  the  light  of  our  house,  I  assure 
you." 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  conseq  —  I  mean  yes,  to  be  sure,"  fal- 
tered the  embarrassed  Toots.     "  GoOD-morning  !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  emphatic  nature  of  this  farewell, 
Mr.  Toots,  instead  of  going  away,  stood  leering  about 
him,  vacantly.  Florence,  to  relieve  him,  bade  adieu, 
with  many  thanks,  to  Lady  Skettles,  and  gave  her  arm 
to  Sir  Barnet. 

"  May  I  beg  of  you,  ray  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  her 
host,  as  he  conducted  her  to  the  carriage,  "  to  present 
my  best  compliments  to  your  dear  papa  ?  " 

It  was  distressing  to  Florence  to  receive  the  commis- 
sion, for  she  felt  as  if  she  were  imposing  on  Sir  Barnet, 
by  allowing  him  to  believe  that  a  kindness  rendered  to 
her,  was  rendered  to  her  father.  As  she  could  not  ex- 
plain, however,  she  bowed  her  head  and  thanked  him ; 
and  again  she  thought  that  the  dull  home,  free  from  such 
embarrassments,  and  such  reminders  of  her  sorrow,  was 
her  natural  and  best  retreat. 

Such  of  her  late  friends  and  companions  as  were  yet  re- 
maining at  the  villa,  came  running  from  within,  and  from 
the  garden,  to  say  good-by.  They  were  all  attached 
to  her,  and  very  earnest  in  taking  leave  of  her.  Even 
the  household  were  sorry  for  her  going,  and  the  sei> 
vants  CHme  nodding  and  courtesying  round  the  carriage* 


266  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

door.  As  Florence  looked  round  on  the  kind  faces,  and 
saw  among  them  those  of  Sir  Bainet  and  his  lady,  and 
of  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  chuckling  and  staring  at  her 
from  a  distance,  she  was  reminded  of  the  night  when 
Paul  and  she  had  come  from  Doctor  Blimber's :  and 
when  the  carriage  drove  away,  her  face  was  wet  with 
tears. 

Sorrowful  tears,  but  tears  of  consolation,  too ;  for  all 
the  softer  memories  connected  with  the  dull  old  house  to 
which  she  was  returning  made  it  dear  to  her,  as  they 
rose  up.  How  long  it  seemed  since  she  had  wandered 
through  the  silent  rooms :  since  she  had  last  crept,  softly 
and  afraid,  into  those  her  father  occupied  :  since  she  had 
felt  the  solemn  but  yet  soothing  influence  of  the  beloved 
dead  in  every  action  of  her  daily  life  !  This  new  fare- 
well reminded  her,  besides,  of  her  parting  with  poor 
Walter :  of  his  looks  and  words  that  night :  and  of  the 
gracious  blending  she  had  noticed  in  him,  of  tender- 
ness for  those  he  left  behind,  with  courage  and  high 
spirits  His  little  history  was  associated  with  the  old 
house  too,  and  gave  it  a  new  claim  and  hold  upon  her 
heart. 

Even  Susan  Nipper  softened  towards  the  home  of  so 
many  years,  as  they  were  on  their  way  towards  it. 
Gloomy  as  it  was,  and  rigid  justice  as  she  rendered  to 
its  gloom,  she  forgave  it  a  great  deal.  "  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  it  again,  I  don't  deny,  miss,"  said  the  Nipper 
•*  There  a'n't  much  in  it  to  boast  of,  but  I  wouldn't  have 
it  burnt  or  pulled  down,  neither  !  " 

"  You'll  be  glad  to  go  through  the  old  rooms,  won't 
you,  Susan  ?  "  said  Florence,  smiling. 

"Well,  miss,"  returned  the  Nipper,  softening  more 
and  more  towards   the   house,  as   they  approached    it 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  267 

nearer,  "  1  won't  deny  but  what  I  shall,  ihough  I  shall 
bate  'em  again,  to-morrow,  very  likely." 

Florence  felt  that,  for  her,  there  was  greater  peace 
witliin  it  than  elsewhere.  It  was  better  and  easier  to 
keep  her  secret  shut  up  there,  among  the  tall  dark  walls, 
than  to  carry  it  abroad  into  the  light,  and  try  to  hide  it 
from  a  crowd  of  happy  eyes.  It  was  better  to  pursue 
the  study  of  her  loving  heart,  alone,  and  find  no  new 
discouragements  in  loving  hearts  about  her.  It  was 
easier  to  hope,  and  pray,  and  love  on,  all  uncared  for, 
yet  with  constancy  and  patience,  in  the  tranquil  sanc- 
tuary of  such  remembrances :  although  it  mouldered, 
rusted,  and  decayed  about  her :  than  in  a  new  scene,  let 
its  gayety  be  what  it  would.  She  welcomed  back  her 
old  enchanted  dream  of  life,  and  longed  for  the  old  dark 
door  to  close  upon  her,  once  again. 

Full  of  such  thoughts,  they  turned  into  the  long  and 
sombre  street.  Florence  was  not  on  that  side  of  the 
carriage  which  was  nearest  to  her  home,  and  as  the  dis- 
tance lessened  between  them  and  it,  she  looked  out  of 
her  window  for  the  children  over  the  way. 

She  was  thus  engaged,  when  an  exclamation  from 
Susan  caused  her  to<turn  quickly  round. 

"  Why  gracious  me ! "  cried  Susan,  breathless,  "  where's 
our  house ! " 

"  Our  house  !  "  said  Florence. 

Susan,  drawing  in  her  head  from  the  window,  thrust 
it  out  again,  drew  it  in  again  as  the  carriage  stopped,  and 
Btared  at  her  mistress  in  amazement. 

There  was  a  labyrinth  of  scaffolding  raised  all  round 
flie  house,  from  the  basement  to  the  roof.  Loads  of 
bricks  and  stones,  and  heaps  of  mortar,  and  piles  of 
wood,  blocked  up  half  the  width  and  length  of  the  bro&d 


268  DOMBEY  AND  SCX. 

street  at  the  side.  Ladders  were  raised  against  the 
walls  :  laborers  were  climbing  up  and  down  ;  men  were 
at  work  upon  the  steps  of  the  scaffolding ;  painters  and 
decorators  were  busy  inside ;  great  rolls  of  ornamental 
paper  were  being  delivered  from  a  cart  at  the  door ;  aa 
upholsterer's  wagon  also  stopped  the  way ;  no  furniture 
was  to  be  seen  through  the  gaping  and  broken  windows 
in  any  of  the  rooms ;  nothing  but  workmen,  and  the 
implements  of  their  several  trades,  swarming  from  the 
kitchens  to  the  garrets.  Inside  and  outside  alike  :  brick- 
layers, painters,  carpenters,  masons  :  hammer,  hod,  brush, 
pickaxe,  saw,  and  trowel :  all  at  work  together,  in  full 
chorus ! 

Florence  descended  from  the  coach,  half  doubting  if 
it  were,  or  could  be  the  right  house,  until  she  recognized 
Towlinson,  with  a  sun-burnt  face,  standing  at  the  door  to 
receive  her. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter?"  inquired  Florence. 

"  Oh,  no,  miss." 

"There  are  great  alterations  going  on." 

"  Yes,  miss,  great  alterations,"  said  Towlinson. 

Florence  passed  him  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream,  and 
Uiirried  up-stairs.  The  garish  light  was  in  the  long- 
darkened  drawing-room,  and  there  were  steps  and  plat- 
forms, and  men  in  paper  caps,  in  the  high  places.  Her 
mothex''s  picture  was  gone  with  the  rest  of  the  mov- 
ables, and  on  the  mark  where  it  had  been,  was  scrawled 
jn  chalk,  "  this  room  in  panel.  Green  and  gold."  The 
staircase  was  a  labyrinth  of  posts  and  planks  like  the 
outside  of  the  house,  and  a  whole  Olympus  of  plumbers 
and  glaziers  was  reclining  in  various  attitudes,  on  the 
skylight.  Her  own  room  was  not  yet  touched  within, 
bttt  there  were  beams  and  boards  raised  against  it  with 


DOMBEY  ANb  SON.  269 

Dut,  balkiii{»  ihe  daylight  She  went  up  swiftly  to  that 
other  bedroom,  where  the  little  bed  was;  and  a  dark 
giant  of  a  man  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his  head 
tied  up  in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  was  staring  in  at  the 
window. 

It  was  here  that  Susan  Nipper,  who  had  been  in  ques 
i)f  Florence,  found  her,  and  said,  would    she  go  down  i 
Btairs  to  lier  papa,  who  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"  At  home  !  and  wishing  to  speak  to  me ! "  cried  Flor* 
ence,  trembling. 

Susan,  who  was  infinitely  more  distraught  than  Flor- 
ence herself,  repeated  her  errand;  and  Florence,  pale 
and  agitated,  hurried  down  again,  without  a  mcment's 
hesitation.  She  thought  upon  the  way  down,  would  she 
dare  to  kiss  him .''  The  longing  of  her  heart  resolved 
her,  and  she  thought  she  would. 

Her  father  might  have  heard  that  heart  beat,  when  it 
came  into  his  presence.  One  instant,  and  it  would  have 
beat  against  his  breast  — 

But  he  was  not  alone.  There  were  two  ladies  there  ; 
and  Florence  stopped.  Striving  so  hard  with  her  emo- 
tion, that  if  her  brute  friend  Di  had  not  burst  in  and 
overwhelmed  her  with  liis  caresses  as  a  welcome  home 
—  at  which  one  of  the  ladies  gave  a  little  scream,  and 
that  diverted  her  attention  from  herself — she  would 
have  swooned  upon  the  floor. 

"  Florence,"  said  her  father,  putting  out  his  hand :  so 
Itiffly  that  it  held  her  off:  "  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

Florence  took  the  hand  between  her  own,  and  putting 
it  timidly  to  her  lips,  yielded  to  its  withdrawal.  It 
touched  the  door  in  shutting  it,  with  quite  as  much 
Bidearment  as  it  had  touched  her. 

"  What  dog  is  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Donibey,  displeased. 


270  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  It  is  a  dog,  papa  —  from  Brighton." 

"  Well ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  a  cloud  passed  over 
his  face,  for  he  understood  her. 

"  He  is  very  good-tempered,"  said  Florence,  address- 
ing herself  with  her  natural  grace  and  sweetness  to  the 
two  lady  strangers.  "  He  is  only  glad  to  see  me.  Pray 
forgive  him." 

She  saw  in  the  glance  they  interchanged,  that  the 
lady  who  had  screamed,  and  who  was  seated,  was  old 
and  that  the  other  lady,  who  stood  near  her  papa,  was 
very  beautiful,  and  of  an  elegant  figure. 

"  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  her  father,  turning  to  the  first, 
and  holding  out  his  hand,  "this  is  my  daughter  Flor- 
ence." 

"  Charming,  I  am  sure,"  observed  the  lady,  putting  up 
her  glass.  "  So  natural  I  My  darling  Florence,  you 
must  kiss  me,  if  you  please." 

Florence  having  done  so,  turned  towards  the  other 
lady,  by  whom  her  father  stood  waiting. 

"  Edith,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  this  is  my  daughter 
Florence.    Florence,  this  lady  will  soon  be  your  mama." 

Florence  started,  and  looked  up  at  the  beautiful  face 
in  a  conflict  of  emotions,  among  which  the  tears  that 
name  awakened,  struggled  for  a  moment  with  surprise, 
interest,  admiration,  and  an  indefinable  sort  of  fear. 
Then  she  cried  out,  "  Oh,  papa,  may  you  be  happy  1 
may  you  be  very,  very  happy  all  your  life ! "  and  then 
fell  weeping  on  the  lady's  bosom. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  The  beautiful  lady,  who 
at  first  had  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  or  no  she  should 
advance  to  Florence,  held  her  to  her  breast,  and  pressed 
the  hand  with  which  she  clasped  her,  close  about  her 
waist,  as  if  to  reassure  her  and  comfort  her.     Not  one 


DOMBET  KSD  SON.  271 

«^ord  passed  the  lady's  lips.  She  bent  her  head  down 
over  Florence,  and  she  kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  but  she 
said  no  word. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  through  the  rooms,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  "  and  see  how  our  workmen  are  doing  ?  Pray  al- 
low me,  my  dear  madam." 

He  said  this  in  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Skewton, 
who  had  been  looking  at  Florence  through  her  glass,  as 
though  picturing  to  herself  what  she  might  be  made,  by 
the  infusion  —  from  her  own  copious  storehouse,  no 
doubt  —  of  a  little  more  Heart  and  Nature.  Florence 
was  still  sobbing  on  the  lady's  breast,  and  holding  to  her, 
when  Mr.  Dombey  was  heard  to  say  from  the  conser- 
vatorj' : 

"  Let  us  ask  Edith.     Dear  me,  where  is  she  ?  " 

*'  Edith,  my  dear  I  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  where  are 
you  ?  Looking  for  Mr.  Dombey  somewhere,  I  know. 
We  are  here,  ray  love." 

The  beautiful  lady  released  her  hold  of  Florence,  and 
pressing  her  lips  once  more  upon  her  face,  withdrew 
hurriedly,  and  joined  them.  Florence  remained  stand- 
ing in  the  same  place  :  happy,  sorry,  joyful,  and  in  tears, 
she  knew  not  how  or  how  long,  but  all  at  once  :  when 
her  new  mama  came  back,  and  took  her  in  her  arms 
Rgain. 

"  Florence,"  said  the  lady  hurriedly,  and  looking  into 
her  face  with  great  earnestness.  "  You  will  not  begin 
by  hating  me  ?  " 

"  By  hating  you,  mama ! "  cried  Florence,  winding  her 
arm  round  her  neck,  and  returning  the  look. 

"  Hush !  Begin  by  thinking  well  of  me,"  said  the  beau- 
tiful lady,  "  Begin  by  believing  that  I  will  try  to  make 
wou  happy,  and  that  I  am  prepared  to  love  you,  Fk)r- 


272  DUMBEY  AND  SON. 

cnce.    Good-by.    We  shall  meet  again,  soon.    GrooU-l  y  ! 
Don't  stay  here,  now." 

Again  she  pressed  her  to  her  breast  —  she  had  spoken 
in  a  rapid  manner,  but  firmly  —  and  Florence  saw  her 
rejoin  them  in  the  other  room. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  hope  that  she  would  learn ' 
from  her  new  and    beautiful  mama,  how  to   gain    her 
father's  love ;  and  in  her  sleep  that  night,  in  her  lost  old 
home,  her  own  mama  smiled  radiantly  upon  the  hopOi 
and  blessed  it.     Dreaming  Florence! 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  273 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THB   OPENING   OF   THE   EYES   OF   MRS.   CHICK. 

Miss  Tox,  all  unconscious  of  any  such  rare  appear 
ances  in  connection  with  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  as  scaf- 
foldings and  ladders,  and  men  witli  their  heads  tied  up 
in  pocket-handkerchiefs,  glaring  in  at  the  windows  like 
flying  genii  or  strange  birds, —  having  breakfasted  one 
morning  at  about  this  eventful  period  of  time,  on  her 
customary  viands :  to  wit,  one  French  roll  rasped,  one 
egg  new  laid  (or  warranted  to  be),  and  one  little  pot  of 
tea,  wherein  was  infused  one  little  silver  scoop-full  of 
that  herb  on  behalf  of  Miss  Tox,  and  one  little  silver 
scoop-full  on  behalf  of  the  teapot  —  a  flight  of  fancy  in 
which  good  house-keepers  delight ;  went  up-stairs  to  set 
forth  the  bird  waltz  on  the  harpsichord,  to  water  and  ar- 
range the  plants,  to  dust  the  knick-knacks,  and  accord- 
ing to  her  daily  custom,  to  make  her  little  drawing-room 
the  garland  of  Princess's-place. 

Miss  Tox  endued  herself  with  the  pair  of  ancient 
gloves,  like  dead  leaves,  in  which  she  was  accustomed 
to  perform  these  avocations  —  hidden  from  human  sight 
at  other  times  in  a  table-drawer  —  and  went  methodically 
to  work ;  beginning  with  the  bird  waltz ;  passing,  by  a 
natural  association  of  ideas,  to  her  bird  —  a  very  high- 
shouldered  canary,  stricken  in  years,  and  much  rumpled, 
hut  a   piercing  singer,  as   Princess's-place   well   knew 

TOI>.  11.  18 


# 


274  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

taking,  next  in  order,  the  little  china  ornaments,  paper 
fly-cages,  and  so  forth ;  and  coming  round,  in  good  time, 
to  the  plants,  which  generally  required  to  be  snipped 
here  and  there  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  for  some  botanical 
reason  that  was  very  powerful  with  Miss  Tox. 

Miss  Tox  was  slow  in  coming  to  the  plants,  this  morn- 
ing. The  weather  was  warm,  the  wind  southerly  ;  and 
there  was  a  sigh  of  the  summer  time  in  Princess's-place, 
that  turned  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  upon  the  country.  The 
pot-boy  attached  to  the  Princess's  Arms  had  come  out 
with  a  can  and  trickled  water,  in  a  flowing  pattern,  aU 
over  Princess's-place,  and  it  gave  the  weedy  ground  a 
fresh  scent  —  quite  a  growing  scent,  Miss  Tox  said. 
There  was  a  tiny  bhnk  of  sun  peeping  in  from  the 
great  street  round  the  corner,  and  the  smoky  spar> 
rows  hopped  over  it  and  back  again,  brightening  as  they 
passed :  or  bathed  in  it  like  a  stream,  and  became  glori- 
fied sparrows,  unconnected  with  chimneys.  Legends  in 
praise  of  Ginger  Beer,  with  pictorial  representations  of 
thirsty  customers  submerged  in  the  effervescence,  or 
stunned  by  the  flying  corks,  were  conspicuous  in  the 
window  of  the  Princess's  Arms.  They  were  making 
late  hay,  somewhere  out  of  town  ;  and  though  the  fra- 
grance had  a  long  way  to  come,  and  many  counter  fra- 
grances to  contend  with  among  the  dwellings  of  the  poor 
(may  God  reward  the  worthy  gentlemen  who  stickle  for 
the  plague  as  part  and  parcel  of  the  wisdom  of  our  an- 
cestors, and  who  do  their  little  best  to  keep  those  dwell- 
ings miserable !),  yet  it  was  wafted  faintly  into  Prin- 
i'jess's-place,  whispering  of  nature  and  her  wholesome 
air,  as  such  things  will,  even  unto  prisoners  and  cap- 
tives, and  those  who  are  desolate  and  oppressed. 

Miss  Tox  sat  down  upon  the  window-seat,  and  thought 


DOirBEY  AND  SON.  275 

of  her  good  papa  deceased  —  Mr.  Tox,  of  the  Customs 
Department  of  the  public  service  ;  and  of  her  childhood, 
passed  at  a  seaport,  among  a  considerable  quantity  of 
cold  tar,  and  some  rusticity.  She  fell  into  a  softened 
remembrance  of  meadows  in  old  time,  gleaming  with 
buttercups,  like  so  many  inverted  firmaments  of  golden 
Biars  ;  and  how  she  had  made  chains  of  dandelion-stalks 
for  youthful  vowers  of  eternal  constancy,  dressed  chiefly 
in  nankeen  ;  and  how  soon  those  fetters  had  withered  and 
broken. 

Sitting  on  the  window-seat,  and  looking  out  upon  the 
sparrows  and  the  blink  of  sun,  Miss  Tox  thought  like- 
wise of  her  good  mama  deceased — sister  to  the  owner 
of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail  —  of  her  virtues,  and 
her  rheumatism.  And  when  a  man  with  bulgy  legs,  and 
a  rough  voice,  and  a  heavy  basket  on  his  head  that 
crushed  his  hat  into  a  mere  black  muflBn,  came  crying 
flowers  down  Princess's-place,  making  his  timid  little 
roots  of  daisies  shudder  in  the  vibration  of  every  yell 
he  gave,  as  though  he  had  been  an  ogre  hawking  little 
children,  summer  recollections  were  so  strong  upon  Miss 
Tox,  that  she  shook  her  head,  and  murmured  she  would 
be  comparatively  old  before  she  knew  it  —  which  seemed 
likely. 

In  her  pensive  mood.  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  went  wan' 
derlng  on  Mr.  Dombey's  track ;  probably  because  the 
major  had  returned  home  to  his  lodgings  opposite,  and 
had  just  bowed  to  her  from  his  window.  What  other 
reason  could  Miss  Tox  have  for  connecting  Mr.  Dombey 
with  her  summer  days  and  dandelion  fetters  ?  Was  he 
more  cheerful  ?  thought  Miss  Tox.  Was  he  reconciled 
to  the  decrees  of  fate  ?  Would  he  ever  marry  again  ; 
nd  if  yes,  whom  ?     What  sort  of  person  now ! 


276  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

A  flush  —  it  was  warm  weather  —  overspread  IVIiss 
Tox's  face,  as,  while  entertaining  these  meditations,  she 
turned  her  head,  and  was  sarprised  by  the  reflection  of 
her  thoughtful  image  in  the  chimney-glass.  Another 
flush  succeeded  when  she  saw  a  httle  carriage  drive 
into  Princess's-place,  and  make  straight  for  her  own 
door.  Miss  Tox  arose,  took  up  her  scissors  hastily,  an<f 
so  coming,  at  last,  to  the  plants,  was  very  busy  with 
them  when  Mrs,  Chick  entered  the  room. 

"  How  is  my  sweetest  friend !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Tox, 
with  open  arras. 

A  little  stateliness  was  mingled  with  Miss  Tox's 
sweetest  friend's  demeanor,  but  she  kissed  Miss  Tox, 
and  said,  "  Lucretia,  thank  yon,  I  am  pretty  well.  I 
hope  you  are  the  same.     Hem !  " 

Mre.  Chick  was  laboring  under  a  peculiar  little  mon- 
osyllabic cough ;  a  sort  of  primer,  or  easy  introduction 
to  the  art  of  coughing.^ 

"  You  call  very  early,  and  how  kind  that  is,  ray 
dear ! "  pursued  Miss  Tox.  "  Now  have  you  break- 
fasted ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  ^  I  have. 
I  took  an  early  breakfast "  —  the  good  lady  seemed 
curious  on  the  subject  of  Princess's-place,  and  looked 
all  round  it  as  she  spoke,  "  with  my  brother,  who  has 
fiome  home." 

"  He  is  better,  I  trust,  my  love,"  faltered  Miss  Tox. 

"  He  is  greatly  better,  thank  you.     Hem  ! " 

"  My  dear  Louisa  must  be  careful  of  that  cough," 
remarked  Miss  Tox. 

"  It's  nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "  It's  merely 
change  of  weather.     We  must  expect  change." 

"  Of  weather  ?  "  asked  Miss  Tox,  in  her  simplicity 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  277 

**0f  tFerything,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  •  Of  course 
we  inuat.  It's  a  world  of  change.  Anj  one  would 
surprise  me  very  much,  Lucretia,  and  would  greatly 
alter  my  opinion  of  their  understanding,  if  they  at- 
tempted to  contradict  or  evade  what  is  so  perfectly  evi- 
dent Change ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  severe 
philosophy.  "  Why,  my  gracious  me,  what  is  there 
that  does  not  change  !  even  the  silkworm,  who  I  am 
sure  might  be  supposed  not  to  trouble  itself  about  such 
subjects,  changes  into  all  soits  of  unexpected  thing? 
continually." 

'•  My  Louisa,"  said  the  mild  Miss  Tox,  "  is  ever 
happy  in  her  illustrations." 

'*  You  are  so  kind,  Lucretia,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  a 
little  softened,  "  as  to  say  so,  and  to  think  so,  I  believe. 
I  liope  neither  of  us  may  ever  have  any  cause  to  lessen 
our  opinion  of  the  other,  Lucretia." 

♦'  I  am  sure  of  it,"  returned  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.  Chick  coughed  as  before,  and  drew  lines  on  the 
carpet  with  the  ivory  end  of  her  parasol.  Miss  Tox, 
who  had  experience  of  her  fair  friend,  and  knew  that 
under  the  pressure  of  any  slight  fatigue  or  vexation  she 
was  prone  to  a  discursive  kind  of  irritability,  availed 
herself  of  the  pause  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  but 
have  I  caught  sight  of  the  manly  form  of  Mr.  Chick  iu 
the  carriage  ?  " 

"  He  is  there,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  but  pray  leave 
him  there.  He  has  his  newspaper,  and  would  be  quite 
eontented  for  the  next  two  hours.  Gro  on  with  your 
flowers,  Lucretia,  and  allow  me  to  sit  here  And  rest" 

"  My  Louisa  knows,"  observed  Miss  Tox,  "  that  be* 
tween  friends  like  ourselves,  any  approach  to  ceremony 


278  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

would  be  out  of  the  question.  Therefore  "  —  rhero- 
fore  Miss  Tox  finished  the  sentence,  not  in  woids  but 
action  ;  and  putting  on  her  gloves  again,  which  she  had 
taken  off,  and  arming  herself  once  more  with  her  scia- 
sors,  began  to  snip  and  clip  among  the  leaves  with  mi- 
croscopic industry. 

"  Florence  has  returned  home  also,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  sitting  silent  for  some  time,  with  her  head  on  one 
side,  and  her  parasol  sketching  on  the  floor ;  "  and  really 
Florence  is  a  great  deal  too  old  now,  to  continue  to  lead 
that  solitary  life  to  which  she  has  been  accustomed.  Of 
course  she  is.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it.  I  should 
have  very  little  respect,  indeed,  for  anybody  who  could 
advocate  a  different  opinion.  Whatever  my  wishes  might 
be,  I  could  not  respect  them.  We  cannot  command  our 
feelings  to  such  an  extent  as  that." 

Miss  Tox  assented,  without  being  particular  as  to  the 
intelligibility  of  the  proposition. 

'*  If  she's  a  strange  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  **  and  if 
my  brother  Paul  cannot  feel  perfectly  comfortable  in 
her  society,  after  all  the  sad  things  that  have  happened, 
and  all  the  terrible  disappointments  that  have  been  un- 
dergone, then,  what  is  the  reply  ?  That  he  must  make 
an  effort.  That  he  is  bound  to  make  an  effort.  We 
have  always  been  a  family  remarkable  for  effort.  Paul 
is  at  the  head  of  the  family ;  almost  the  only  repre- 
sentative left  —  for  what  am  I  —  i  am  of  no  conse- 
quence "  — 

"  My  dearest  love,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes,  which  were,  for  the  mo- 
ment, ovei-flowing ;  and  proceeded  : 

'  And  consequently  he  is  more  than  ever  bound  tj 
make  an  effort.     And  though  his  having  done  so,  comes 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  279 

npon  me  with  a  sort  of  shock  —  for  mh.e  is  a  very  weak 
Rnd  foolish  nature ;  which  is  anything  but  a  blessing  I 
am  sure  ;  I  often  wish  my  heart  was  a  marble  slab,  or 
a  paving-stone  "  — 

"My  sweet  Louisa,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox  again. 

•'  Still,  it  is  a  triumph  to  me  to  know  that  he  is  s 
true  to  himself,  and  to  his  name  of  Dorabey ;  although 
of  course,  I  always  knew  he  would  be.     I  only  hope, 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  pause,  "  that  she  may  be  wor- 
thy of  the  name  too." 

Miss  Tox  filled  a  little  green  watering-pot  from  a  jug, 
and  happening  to  look  up  when  she  had  done  so,  was  so 
surprised  by  the  amount  of  expression  Mrs.  Chick  had 
conveyed  into  her  face,  and  was  bestowing  upon  her, 
that  she  put  the  little  watering-pot  on  the  table  for  the 
present,  and  sat  down  near  it. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  will  it  be  the 
least  satisfaction  to  you,  if  I  venture  to  observe  in  ref- 
erence to  that  remark,  that  I,  as  a  humble  individual, 
think  your  sweet  niece  in  every  way  most  promising ! " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Lucretia  ? "  returned  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  increased  stateliness  of  manner.  "  To  what 
remark  of  mine,  my  dear,  do  you  refer  ? " 

"  Her  being  worthy  of  her  name,  my  love,"  replied 
Miss  Tox. 

"  If,''  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  solemn  patience,  "  I  have 
not  expressed  myself  with  clearness,  Lucretia,  the  fault 
of  course  is  mine.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  reason  why  I 
should  express  myself  at  all,  except  the  intimacy  that 
has  subsisted  between  us,  and  which  I  very  much  hope, 
Lucretia  —  confidently  hope  —  nothing  will  occur  to  di9> 
^urb.  Because,  why  should  I  do  anything  else  ?  There 
vs  no  reason  ;  it  would  be  absurd.     But  I  wish  to  ex- 


2S0  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

press  myself  clearly,  Lucretia  ;  and  therefore  to  go  back 
to  that  remark,  I  must  beg  to  say  that  it  was  not  intended 
to  relate  to  Florence  in  any  way." 

"  Indeed  !  "  returned  Miss  Tox. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  shortly  and  decisively. 

'*  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  rejoined  her  meek  friend 
"  but  I  cannot  have  understood  it.     I  fear  I  am  dulL* 

Mrs.  Cliick  looked  round  the  room  and  over  the  way ; 
at  the  plants,  at  the  bird,  at  the  watering-pot,  at  almost 
everything  within  view,  except  Miss  Tox ;  and  finally 
dropping  her  glance  upon  Miss  Tox,  for  a  moment,  on 
its  way  to  the  ground,  said,  looking  meanwhile  with  ele- 
vated eyebrows  at  the  carpet: 

"  When  I  speak,  Lucretia,  of  her  being  worthy  of  the 
name,  I  speak  of  my  brother  Paul's  second  wife.  I  be- 
lieve I  have  already  said,  in  effect,  if  not  in  the  very 
words  I  now  use,  that  it  is  his  intention  to  marry  a 
second  wife." 

Miss  Tox  left  her  seat  in  a  hurry,  and  returned  to 
her  plants ;  clipping  among  the  stems  and  leaves  with 
as  little  favor  as  a  barber  working  at  so  many  pauper 
heads  of  hair. 

"  Whether  she  will  be  fully  sensible  of  the  distinction 
conferred  upon  her,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  lofty  tone,  "  is 
quite  another  question.  I  hope  she  may  be.  We  are 
bound  to  think  well  of  one  anotlier  in  this  world,  and  I 
hope  she  may  be.  J  have  not  been  advised  with,  my- 
self. If  I  had  been  advised  with,  I  have  no  doubt  my 
advice  would  have  been  cavalierly  received,  and  there- 
fore it  is  infinitely  better  as  it  is.  I  much  prefer  it  as 
k  is." 

Miss  Tox,  with  head  bent  down,  still  clipped  among 
the  plants.     Mrs.  Chick,  with  energetic  shakings  of  her 


DOMBEY    \.ND   SON.  281 

own  head  fi-ora  time  to  time,  continued  to  hold  forth,  ai 
if  in  defiance  of  somebody. 

"  If  my  brother  Paul  had  consulted  with  me,  which  he 
sometimes  does — or  rather,  sometimes  used  to  do;  for 
he  will  naturally  do  that  no  more  now,  and  this  is  a  rir- 
cumstance  which  I  regard  as  a  relief  from  responsibil- 
ity," said  Mrs.  Chick,  hysterically,  "  for  I  thank  Hea\  er. 
1  am  not  jealous  "  —  here  Mrs.  Chick  again  shed  tears 
"if  my  brother  Paul  had  come  to  me,  and  had  said, 
'  Louisa,  what  kind  of  qualities  would  you  advise  me  to 
look  out  for,  in  a  wife  ? '  I  should  certainly  have  an- 
fiwered,  '  Paul,  you  must  have  family,  you  must  have 
beauty,  you  must  have  dignity,  you  must  have  conneo- 
tion.'  Tliose  are  the  words  I  should  have  used.  You 
might  have  led  me  to  the  block  immediately  afterwards," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  that  consequence  were  highly 
probable,  "but  I  should  have  used  them.  I  should  have 
said,  '  Paul !  You  to  marry  a  second  time  without 
family  !  You  to  marry  without  beauty  !  You  to  marry 
without  dignity !  You  to  marry  without  connection ! 
There  is  nobody  in  the  world,  not  mad,  who  could  dream 
of  daring  to  entertain  such  a  preposterous  idea  ! '  " 

Miss  Tox  stopped  clipping ;  and  with  her  head  among 
the  plants,  listened  attentively.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox 
thouglit  there  was  hope  in  this  exordium,  and  in  the 
tvarmth  of  Mrs.   Chick. 

**  I  should  have  adopted  this  course  of  argument,' 
pursued  the  discreet  lady,  "  because  I  trust  I  am  not  « 
fool.  I  make  no  claim  to  be  considered  a  i)erson  of 
superior  intellect — though  I  believe  some  people  have 
been  extraordinary  enough  to  consider  me  so ;  one  so 
little  humored  as  I  am,  would  very  soon  be  disabused  of 
any  su  Ji  notion ;  but  I  trust  I  am  not  a  downright  fool 


282  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

And  to  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  ineffable  disdaiDt 
"  that  my  brother  Paul  Dombey  could  ever  contemplate 
the  possibility  of  uniting  himself  to  anybody  —  I  don'! 
care  who"  —  she  was  more  sharp  and  emphatic  in  thai 
short  clause  than  in  any  other  part  of  her  discourse  — 
**  not  possessing  these  requisites,  would  be  to  insult  what 
understanding  I  have  got,  as  much  as  if  I  was  to  be  told 
that  I  was  born  and  bred  an  elephant.  Which  I  mct^ 
be  told  next,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  resignation.  "  It 
wouldn't  surprise  me  at  all.     I  expect  it." 

In  the  moment's  silence  that  ensued,  Miss  Tox's  scis- 
sors gave  a  feeble  clip  or  two ;  but  Miss  Tox's  face  was 
still  invisible,  and  Miss  Tox's  morning  gown  was  agi- 
tated. Mrs.  Chick  looked  sideways  at  her,  through  the 
intervening  plants,  and  went  on  to  say,  in  a  tone  of 
bland  conviction,  and  as  one  dwelling  on  a  point  of  fact 
that  hardly  required  to  be  stated  : 

"  Therefore,  of  course  my  brother  Paul  has  done  what 
was  to  be  expected  of  him,  and  what  anybody  might  have 
foreseen  he  would  do,  if  he  entered  the  marriage  state 
again.  I  confess  it  takes  me  rather  by  surprise,  how- 
ever gratifying ;  because  when  Paul  went  out  of  town  I 
had  no  idea  at  all  that  he  would  form  any  attachment 
out  of  town,  and  he  certainly  had  no  attachment  when 
he  left  here.  However,  it  seems  to  be  extremely  desir- 
able in  every  point  of  view.  I  have  no  doubt  the  mother 
is  a  most  genteel  and  elegant  creature,  and  I  have  no 
right  whatever  to  dispute  the  policy  of  her  living  with 
them :  which  is  Paul's  affair,  not  mine  —  and  as  to" 
Paul's  choice,  herself,  I  have  only  seen  her  picture  yet, 
but  that  is  beautiful  indeed.  Her  name  is  beautiful  too," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  shaking  her  head  with  energy,  and  ar^ 
ranging  herself  in  her  chair ;  •'  Edith  is  at  once  imcom* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  283 

mon,  as  it  strikes  me,  and  distinguished.  Consequently, 
Lucretia,  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be  happy  to  hear 
that  the  marriage  is  to  take  place  immediately  —  of 
course,  you  will : "  great  emphasis  again  :  "  and  that 
you  are  delighted  with  this  change  in  the  condition  of 
my  brother,  who  has  shown  you  a  great  deal  of  pleasant 
attention  at  various  times." 

Miss  Tox  made  no  verbal  answer,  but  took  up  the 
little  watering-pot  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  looked 
vacantly  round  as  if  considering  what  article  of  furniture 
would  be  improved  by  the  contents.  The  room-door 
opening  at  this  crisis  of  Miss  Tox's  feelings,  she  started, 
laughed  aloud,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  person  en- 
tering ;  happily  insensible  alike  of  Mrs.  Chick's  indig- 
nant countenance,  and  of  the  major  at  his  window  over 
the  way,  who  had  his  double-barrelled  eye-glass  in  full 
action,  and  whose  face  and  figure  were  dilated  with 
Mephistophelean  joy. 

Not  so  the  expatriated  native,  amazed  supporter  of 
Miss  Tox's  swooning  form,  who,  coming  straight  up- 
stairs, with  a  polite  inquiry  touching  Miss  Tox's  health 
(in  exact  pursuance  of  the  major's  malicious  instruc- 
tions), had  accidentally  arrived  in  the  very  nick  of  time 
to  catch  the  delicate  burden  in  his  arms,  and  to  receive 
the  contents  of  the  little  watering-pot  in  his  shoe ;  both 
of  which  circumstances,  coupled  with  his  consciousnesa 
of  being  closely  watched  by  the  wrathful  major,  who  had 
thieatened  the  usual  penalty  in  regard  of  every  bone  in 
his  skin  in  case  of  any  failure,  combined  to  render  him  a 
moving  spectacle  of  ment&l  and  bodily  distress. 

For  some  moments,  this  afflicted  foreigner  remained 
clasping  Miss  Tox  to  his  heart,  with  an  energy  of  action 
in  remarkable  opposition  to  his  disconcerted  face,  while 


tS4  DOMBEY   AND  SOfi. 

that  poor  lady  trickled  slowly  down  upon  him  the  very 
last  sprinklings  of  the  little  watering-pot,  as  if  he  were  a 
delicate  exotic  (which  indeed  he  was),  and  might  be  al- 
most expected  to  blow  while  the  gentle  rain  descended. 
Mrs.  Chick,  at  length  recovering  sufficient  presence  of 
mind  to  interpose,  commanded  him  to  drop  Miss  Tox 
upon  the  sofa  and  withdraw  ;  and  the  exile  prom[)tlj 
obeying,  she  applied  herself  to  promote  Miss  Tox's  re- 
covery. 

But  none  of  that  gentle  concern  which  usually  charac- 
terizes the  daughters  of  Eve  in  their  tending  of  each 
other;  none  of  that  freemasonry  in  fainting,  by  which 
they  are  generally  bound  together  in  a  mysterious  bond 
of  sisterhood  ;  was  visible  in  Mrs.  Chick's  demeanor. 
Rather  like  the  executioner  who  restores  the  victim  to 
sensation  previous  to  proceeding  with  the  torture  (or 
was  wont  to  do  so,  in  the  good  old  times  for  which  all 
true  men  wear  perpetual  mourning),  did  Mrs.  Chick 
administer  the  smelling-bottle,  the  slapping  on  the  hands, 
the  dashing  of  cold  water  on  the  face,  and  tlu  other 
proved  remedies.  And  when,  at  length.  Miss  Tox 
opened  her  eyes,  and  gradually  became  restored  tc  ani- 
mation and  consciousness,  Mrs.  Chick  drew  off  as  from  a 
criminal,  and  reversing  the  precedent  of  the  muidered 
king  of  Denmark,  regarded  her  more  in  anger  than  in 
sorrow. 

"  Lucretia ! "  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  I  will  not  attempt 
to  disguise  what  I  feeL  My  eyes  are  opened,  all  at 
once.  I  wouldn't  have  believed  this,  if  a  saint  had  told 
it  to  me." 

**  I  am  foolish  to  give  way  to  faintness,"  Miss  Tox 
faltered.     "  I  shall  be  better  presently." 

♦*  You  will  be  better  presently,  Lucretia !  "  repeated 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  285 

Mrs.  Chick,  with  exceeding  scorn.  "  Do  you  suppose 
I  am  blind  ?  Do  you  imagine  I  am  in  my  second  child- 
hood ?     No,  Lucretia  !  I  am  obliged  to  you  !  " 

Miss  Tox  directed  an  imploring,  helpless  kind  of  look 
towards  her  friend,  and  put  her  handkerchief  befyre  her 
face. 

"  If  any  one  had  told  me  this  yesterday,"  said  Mm 
Chick  with  majesty,  "  or  even  half  an  hour  ago,  I  should 
have  been  tempted,  I  almost  believe,  to  strike  them  to 
the  earth.  Lucretia  Tox,  my  eyes  are  opened  to  you  all 
at  once.  The  scales : "  here  Mrs.  Chick  cast  down  an 
imaginary  pair,  such  as  are  commonly  used  ni  grocers* 
shops  :  •'  have  fallen  from  my  sight.  The  bhuaness  of 
my  confidence  is  past,  Lucretia.  It  has  been  abused  and 
played  upon,  and  evasicMi  is  quite  out  of  the  question 
now,  I  assure  you." 

"  Oh  !  to  what  do  you  allude  so  cruelly,  my  love  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Tox,  through  her  tears. 

"  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  ask  your  own  heart. 
I  must  entreat  you  not  to  address  me  by  any  such  famil- 
iar term  as  you  have  just  used,  if  you  pleas-«  I  have 
some  self-respect  left,  though  you  may  think  otherwise." 

"  Oh,  Louisa  ! "  cried  Miss  Tox.  "  How  can  yoa 
speak  to  me  like  that  ? " 

"  How  can  I  speak  to  you  like  that  ? "  retorted  Mrs. 
Chick,  who,  in  default  of  having  any  particular  argU" 
ment  to  sustain  herself  upon,  relied  principally  on  sacb 
repetitions  for  her  most  withering  effects.  "  Like  that ! 
You  may  well  say  like  that,  indeed ! " 

Miss  Tox  sobbed  pitifully. 

"The  idea  !"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "ot  your  having  basked 
at  my  brother's  fireside,  like  a  serpent,  and  wound  your- 
self, through  me,  almost    into  his  confidence,  Lucretia, 


286  DOMBEY  ANL  SON. 

that  /ou  might,  in  \secret,  entertain  designs  upon  him, 
and  dare  to  aspire  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  his 
'Uniting  himself  to  you!  Why,  it  is  an  idea,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick  with  sarcastic  dignity,  "  the  absurdity  of  whidi 
almost  relieves  its  treachery." 

"  Pray,  Louisa,"  urged  Miss  Tox,  "  do  not  pay  sacli 
dreadful  things." 

"  Dreadful  things  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Dread- 
ful things !  Is  it  not  a  fact,  Lucretia,  that  you  have  just 
now  been  unable  to  command  your  feelings  even  before 
me,  whose  eyes  you  had  so  completely  closed  ?  " 

"  I  have  made  no  complaint,"  sobbed  Miss  Tox.  "  I 
have  said  nothing.  If  I  have  been  a  little  overpow- 
ered by  your  news,  Louisa,  and  have  ever  had  any 
lingering  thought  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  inclined  to  be 
particular  towards  me,  surely  you  will  not  condemn  me." 

"  She  is  going  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  addressing 
herself  to  the  whole  of  the  furniture,  in  a  comprelien- 
sive  glance  of  resignation  and  appeal,  "  She  is  going  to 
say  —  I  know  it  —  that  I  have  encouraged  her  1 " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  exchange  reproaches,  dear  Louisa," 
sobbed  Miss  Tox.  "  Nor  do  I  wish  to  complain.  But, 
in  my  own  defence"  — 

"  Yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  looking  round  the  room 
with  a  prophetic  smile,  '*  that's  what  she's  going  to  say. 
I  knew  it.  You  had  better  say  it.  Say  it  openly !  Be 
open,  Lucretia  Tox,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  desperate 
sternness,  "  whatever  you  are." 

"  In  my  own  defence,"  faltered  Miss  Tox,  *'  and  only 
in  my  own  defence  against  your  unkind  words,  my  deai 
Louisa,  I  would  merely  ask  you  if  you  haven't  often 
favored  such  a  fancy,  and  even  said  it  might  happsOf 
for  anything  we  could  tell  ?  " 


DOMBEY  AM)  SON.  287 

**  Thei  3  is  a  point,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  rising,  jiot  as  if 
she  were  going  to  stop  at  the  floor,  but  as  if  she  were 
about  to  soar  up,  high,  into  her  native  skies,  "beyond 
which  endurance  becomes  ridiculous,  if  not  culpable.  I 
can  bear  much  ;  but  not  too  much.  What  spell  was  on 
me  when  I  came  into  this  house  this  day,  I  don't  know  j 
but  I  had  a  presentiment  —  a  dark  presentiment,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  shiver,  "  that  something  was  going  to 
hajipen.  Well  may  I  have  had  that  foreboding,  Lucre- 
tia,  when  my  confidence  of  many  years  is  destroyed  in  an 
instant,  when  my  eyes  are  opened  all  at  once,  and  when 
I  find  you  revealed  in  your  true  colors.  Lucretia,  I 
have  been  mistaken  in  you.  It  is  better  for  us  both 
that  this  subject  should  end  here.  I  wish  you  well,  and 
I  shall  ever  wish  you  well.  But,  as  an  individual  who 
desires  to  be  true  to  herself  in  her  own  poor  position, 
whatever  that  position  may  be,  «r  may  not  be  —  and  as 
the  sister  of  my  brother  —  and  as  the  sister-in-law  of 
my  brother's  wife  —  and  as  a  connection  by  marriage 
of  ray  brother's  wife's  mother  —  may  I  be  permitted  to 
add,  as  a  Dombey  ?  —  I  can  wish  you  nothing  else  but 
good-morning." 

These  words,  delivered  with  cutting  suavity,  tempered 
and  chastened  by  a  lofty  air  of  moral  rectitude,  carried 
the  speaker  to  the  door.  There  she  inclined  her  head 
in  a  ghostly  and  statue-like  manner,  and  so  withdrew  to 
her  carriage,  to  seek  comfort  and  consolation  in  the  arms 
of  Mr.  Chick  her  lord. 

Figuratively  speaking,  that  is  to  say ;  for  the  arms  of 
Mr.  Chick  were  full  of  his  newspaper.  Neither  did 
that  gentleman  address  his  eyes  towards  his  wife  other- 
wise than  by  stealth.  Neither  did  he  offer  any  consola- 
tion  whatever.     In  short,  he  sat  reading,  and  humming 


288  DOMBEY  Am>  SON. 

fag  ends,  of  tunes,  and  sometimes  glancing  furtively  at 
her  without  delivering  himself  of  word,  good,  bad,  at 
indifferent. 

In  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Chick  set  swelling  and  bri- 
dling, and  tossing  her  head,  as  if  she  were  still  repeat- 
ing that  solemn  formula  of  farewell  to  Lucretia  Tox. 
At  length,  she  said  aloud,  "  Oh  the  extent  to  which  her 
eyes  had  been  opened  that  day ! " 

"  To  which  your  eyes  have  been  opened,  my  dear  !  " 
repeated  Mr.  Chick. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  If  you 
can  bear  to  see  me  in  this  state,  and  not  ask  me  what 
the  matter  is,  you  had  better  hold  your  tongue  forever." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  ? "  asked  Mr.  Chick. 

"  To  think,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  state  of  soliloquy, 
"  that  she  should  ever  have  conceived  the  base  idea  of 
connecting  herself  witl^  our  family  by  a  marriage  with 
Paul !  To  think  that  when  she  was  playing  at  horses 
with  that  dear  child  who  is  now  in  his  grave  —  I  never 
liked  it  at  the  time  —  she  should  have  been  hiding  such 
a  double-faced  design  !  I  wonder  she  was  never  afraid 
that  something  would  happen  to  her.  She  is  fortunate 
if  nothing  does." 

"  I  really  thought,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Chick  slowly, 
after  rubbing  the  bridge  of  his  nose  for  some  time  with 
his  newspaper,  "  that  you  had  gone  on  the  same  Is^-k 
yourself,  all  along,  until  this  morning ;  and  had  thought 
it  would  be  a  convenient  thing  enough,  if  it  could  have 
been  brought  about." 

Mrs.  Chick  instantly  burst  into  tears,  and  told  Mr. 
Chick  that  if  he  wished  to  trample  upon  her  with  his 
boots,  he  had  better  do  it. 

"  But  with  Lucretia   Tox   I   have   done,"  said  Mrs. 


liOiiiiKV  ANU   SON.  28a 

Chick,  after  abancicning  herself  ro  her  feelings  for  some 
minutes,  to  Mr.  Cliick's  great  terror.  "  I  can  bear  to 
resign  Paul's  confidence  in  favor  of  one  who,  I  hope  and 
trust,  may  be  deserving  of  it,  and  with  whom  he  has  a 
perfect  right  to  replace  poor  Fanny  if  he  chooses ;  I  can 
bear  to  be  informed,  in  Paul's  cool  manner,  of  such  h 
change  in  his  plans,  and  never  to  be  consuUed  until  all  i.» 
settled  and  determined  ;  but  deceit  I  can  not  bear,  and 
with  Lucretia  Tox  I  have  done.  It  is  better  as  it  is," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  piously ;  "  much  better.  It  would  have 
been  a  long  time  before  I  could  have  accommodated  my- 
self comfortably  with  her,  after  this  ;  and  I  really  don't 
know,  as  Paul  is  going  to  be  very  grand,  and  these  are 
people  of  condition,  that  she  would  have  been  quite 
presentable,  and  might  not  have  compromised  myself. 
There's  a  providence  in  everything;  everj'thing  works 
for  the  best ;  I  have  been  tried  to-day,  but,  upon  the 
wliole,  I  don't  regret  it." 

In  which  Christian  spirit,  Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes, 
and  smoothed  her  lap,  and  sat  as  became  a  person  calm 
under  a  great  wrong.  Mr.  Chick,  feeling  his  imworthi- 
ness  no  doubt,  took  an  early  opportunity  of  being  set 
down  at  a  street-corner  and  walking  away,  whistling, 
with  his  shoulders  very  much  raised,  and  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

While  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox,  who,  if  she 
were  a  fawner  and  toad-eater,  was  at  least  an  honest 
and  a  constant  one,  and  had  ever  borne  a  faithful  friend- 
ship towards  hei-  irapeacher,  and  had  been  truly  absorbed 
And  swallowed  up  in  devotion  to  the  magnificence  of 
Mr.  Dombey  —  while  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox 
watered  her  plants  with  her  tears,  and  felt  that  it  was 
winter  in  rrincess's-place. 

VOL..  II.  I* 


29C  DOHBET  AND  SOS. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THR  INTERVAL  BEFORE  THE  MARRIAOS. 

Although  the  enchanted  house  was  no  more,  and  the 
working  world  had  broken  into  it,  and  was  hammering 
and  crashing  and  tramping  up  and  down  stairs  all  day 
long,  keeping  Diogenes  in  an  incessant  paroxysm  of 
barking  from  sunrise  to  sunset  —  evidently  convinced 
that  his  enemy  had  got  the  better  of  him  at  last,  and 
was  then  sacking  the  premises  in  triumphant  defiance  — 
there  was,  at  first,  no  other  great  change  in  the  method 
of  Florence's  life.  At  night,  when  the  work-people  went 
away,  the  house  was  dreary  and  deserted  again  ;  and 
Florence  listening  to  their  voices  echoing  through  the 
hall  and  staircase  as  they  departed,  pictured  to  herself 
the  cheerful  homes  to  which  they  were  returning,  and 
the  children  who  were  waiting  for  them,  and  was  glad 
to   think  that  they  were   merry  and    well    pleased   to 

go- 
She  welcomed  back  the  evening  silence  as  an  eld 
friend,  but  it  came  now  with  an  altered  face,  and  looked 
more  kindly  on  her.  Fresh  hope  was  in  it.  The  beau- 
tiful lady  who  had  soothed  and  caressed  her,  in  the  very 
room  in  which  her  heart  had  been  so  wrung,  was  a  spirit 
of  promise  to  her.  Soft  shadows  of  the  bright  life 
dawning,  when  her  father's  affection  should  be  gradually 
woi\  and  all,  or  much  should  be  restored,  of  what  she 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  291 

had  lost  on  the  dark  day  when  a  mother's  love  bad  faded 
with  a  mother's  last  breath  on  her  cheek,  moved  about 
her  in  the  twiUght  and  were  welcome  company.  Peep- 
ing at  the  rosy  children  her  neighbors,  it  was  a  new  and 
precious  sensation  to  think  that  they  might  soon  speak 
together  and  know  each  other :  when  she  would  not  fear 
as  of  old,  to  show  herself  before  them,  lest  they  should 
be  grieved  to  see  her  in  her  black  dress  sitting  there 
alone  ! 

In  her  thoughts  of  her  new  mother,  and  in  the  love 
and  trust  overflowing  her  pure  heart  towards  her,  Flor- 
ence loved  her  own  dead  mother  more  and  more.  She 
had  no  fear  of  setting  up  a  rival  in  her  breast.  The 
new  flower  sprang  from  the  deep-planted  and  long-cher- 
ished root,  she  knew.  Every  gentle  word  that  had  fall- 
en from  the  lips  of  the  beautiful  lady,  sounded  to  Flor- 
ence like  an  echo  of  the  voice  long  hushed  and  silent 
How  could  she  love  that  memory  less  for  living  tender- 
ness, when  it  was  her  memory  of  all  parental  tenderness 
and  love ! 

Florence  was,  one  day,  sitting  reading  in  her  room, 
and  thinking  of  the  lady  and  her  promised  visit  soon  — 
for  her  book  turned  on  a  kindred  subject  —  when,  rais* 
ing  her  eyes,  she  saw  her  standing  in  the  door-way. 

"  Mama  !  "  cried  Florence,  joyfully  meeting  her 
"  Come  again  !  " 

"  Not  mama  yet,"  returned  the  lady,  with  a  serious 
Mnile,  as  she  encircled  Florence's  neck  with  her  arm. 

"  Bat  very  soon  to  be,"  cried  Florence. 

M  Very  soon  now,  Florence  :  very  soon." 

Edith  bent  her  head  a  little  so  as  to  press  the  bloom- 
ing cheek  of  Florence  against  her  own,  and  for  some 
*iew  moments  remained    thus  silent.     There  was  some- 


292  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

thing  so  veiy  tender  in  her  manner,  that  Florence  wa* 
even  more  sensible  of  it  than  on  the  first  occasion  of 
their  meeting. 

She  led  Florence  to  a  chair  beside  her,  and  sat  down : 
Florence  looking  in  her  face,  quite  wondering  at  it« 
beauty,  and  willingly  leaving  her  hand  in  hers. 

"  Have  you  been  alone,  Florence,  since  I  was  here 
last  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  smiled  Florence,  hastily. 

She  hesitated  and  cast  down  her  eyes;  for  her  new 
mama  was''  very  earnest  in  her  look,  and  the  look  was 
intently  and  thoughtfully  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"I  —  I  —  am  used  to  be  alone,"  said  Florence.  "  I 
don't  mind  it  at  all.  Di  and  I  pass  whole  days  together, 
sometimes."  Florence  might  have  said  whole  weeks, 
and  months. 

"  I.S  Di  your  maid,  love  ?  " 

"  My  dog,  mama,"  said  Florence,  laughing.  "  Susan 
is  my  maid." 

"  And  these  are  your  rooms,"  said  Edith,  looking 
round.  "  I  was  not  shown  these  rooms  the  other  day. 
We  must  have  them  improved,  Florence.  They  shall 
be  made  the  prettiest  in  the  house." 

"  If  I  might  change  them,  mama,"  returned  Florence  ; 
"  there  is  one  up-stairs  I  should  like  much  better." 

**  Is  this  not  high  enough,  dear  girl  ?  "  asked  Edith, 
smiling. 

"The  other  was  my  brother's  room,"  said  Florence, 
"  and  I  am  very  fond  of  iu  I  would  have  spoken  to 
papa  about  it  when  I  came  home,  and  found  tbe  work- 
men here,  and  everything  changing  ;  but  "  — 

Florence  dropped  her  eyes,  lest  the  same  look  should 
maki-  her  falter  again. 


DOMBEY  AND   SON".  293 

—  "but  I  was  afraid  it  might  distress  him;  and  aa 
yon  said  you  would  be  here  again  soon,  mama,  and  are 
the  mistress  of  everything,  I  determined  to  take  courage 
and  ask  you." 

Edith  sat  looking  at  her,  with  h^r  brilliant  eyes  intent 
Dpon  her  face,  until  Florence  raising  her' own,  she,  in 
her  turn,  withdrew  her  gaze,  and  turned  it  on  the  ground. 
It  was  then  that  Florence  thought  how  different  this 
lady's  beauty  was,  from  what  she  had  supposed.  She 
had  though*  ^'  of  a  proud  and  lofty  kind ;  yet  her  man- 
ner was  so  suOJued  and  gentle,  that  if  she  had  been  of 
Florence's  own  age  and  character,  it  scarcely  could  have, 
invited  confidence  more. 

Except  when  a  constrained  and  singular  reserve  cn^pt 
over  her ;  and  then  she  seemed  (but  Florence  hardly 
understood  this,  though  she  could  not  choose  but  notice 
it,  and  think  about  it)  as  if  she  were  humbled  before 
Florence,  and  ill  at  ease.  When  she  had  said  that  she 
was  not  her  mama  yet,  and  when  Florence  had  called 
her  the  mistress  of  everything  there,  this  change  in  her 
was  quick  and  startling ;  and  now,  while  the  eyes  of 
Florence  rested  on  her  face,  she  sat  as  though  sh*^  would 
have  shrunk  and  hidden  from  her,  rathei  than  as  one 
about  to  love  and  cherish  her,  in  right  ot  such  a  ar 
connection. 

She  gave  Florence  her  ready  promise  about  her  new 
room,  and  said  she  would  give  directions  about  it  her- 
lelf.  She  then  asked  some  questions  concerning  poor 
Paul ;  and  when  they  had  sat  in  conversation  for  some 
time  told  Florence  she  had  come  to  take  her  to  her  ow' 
bome. 

"  We  have  come  to  London  now,  my  mother  and  I, 
faid  Edith,  "  and  you  shall  ?tay  with  us  until  I  am  mar- 


294  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ried.     I  wish  that  we  should  know  and  trust  each  other 
Florence." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Florence,  "  dear 
mama.     How  much  I  iliank  you  !  " 

"  Let  me  say  now,  Cur  it  may  be  the  best  opportunity," 
continued  Edith,  looking  round  to  see  that  they  were 
quite  alone,  and  speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  "  that  when 
I  am  married,  and  have  gone  away  for  some  weeks,  1 
Bhall  be  easier  at  heart  if  you  will  come  home  here. 
No  matter  who  invites  you  to  stay  elsewhere,  come  home 
here.  It  is  better  to  be  alone  than  —  what  I  would  say 
is,"  she  added,  cliecking  herself,  "  that  I  know  well  you 
are  best  at  home,  dear  Florence." 

"  I  will  come  home  on  the  very  day,  mama." 

"  Do  so.  I  rely  on  that  promise.  Now,  prepare  to 
come  with  me,  dear  girl.  You  will  find  me  down-staira 
when  you  are  ready." 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  did  Edith  wander  alone 
through  the  mansion  of  which  she  was  so  soon  to  be 
the  lady :  and  little  heed  took  she  of  all  the  elegance 
and  splendor  it  began  to  display.  The  same  indomita- 
ble haughtiness  of  soul,  the  same  proud  scorn  expressed 
in  eye  and  lip,  the  same  fierce  beauty,  only  tamed  by  a 
sense  of  its  own  little  worth,  and  of  the  little  worth  of 
everything  around  it,  went  through  the  grand  saloons 
and  lialls,  that  had  got  loose  among  the  shady  trees,  and 
rag^d  and  rent  themselves.  The  mimic  roses  on.  the 
walls  and  floors  were  set  round  with  sharp  thorns,  that 
lore  her  breast ;  in  every  scrap  of  gold  so  dazzling  to 
tlie  eye,  she  saw  some  hateful  atom  of  her  purchase- 
money ;  the  broad  high  mirrors  showed  her,  at  full 
iength,  a  woman  with  a  noble  quality  yet  dwelling  in 
ber   nature,  who  was   too  false   to  her  bet'er  self,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  295 

too  debased  and  lost,  to  save  herself.  She  believed  thai 
rU  this  was  so  plain,  more  or  less,  to  all  eyes,  that  she 
had  no  resource  or  power  of  self-assertion  but  in  pride ; 
and  with  this  pride,  which  tortured  her  own  heart  night 
and  day,  she  fought  her  fate  out,  braved  it,  and  de- 
fied it. 

"Was  this  the  woman  whom  Florence  —  an  innocent 
girl,  strong  only  in  her  earnestness  and  simple  truth  — 
could  so  impress  and  quell,  that  by  her  side  she  was 
another  creature,  with  her  tempest  of  fashion  hushed, 
and  her  very  pride  itself  subdued  ?  Was  this  the 
woman  who  now  sat  beside  her  in  a  carriage,  with  her 
arms  entwined,  and  who,  while  she  courted  and  entreated 
her  to  love  and  trust  her,  drew  her  fair  head  to  nestle 
on  her  breast,  and  would  have  laid  down  life  to  shield 
it  from   wrong  or  harm  ? 

Oh,  Edith  !  it  werei  well  to  die,  indeed,  at  such  a 
time!  Better  and  happier  far,  perhaps,  to  die  so,  Edith, 
than  to  live  on  to  the  end ! 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  was  thinking  of 
anything  rather  than  of  such  sentiments- — for,  like  many 
genteel  pei-sons  who  have  existed  at  various  times,  she 
set  her  face  against  death  altogether,  and  objected  to  the 
mention  of  any  such  low  and  levelling  upstart  —  had 
borrowed  a  house  in  Brook-street,  Grosvenor-square, 
from  a  stately  relative  (one  of  the  Feenix  brood),  who 
was  out  of  town,  and  who  did  not  object  to  lending  it, 
m  the  handsomest  manner,  for  nuptial  purposes,  as  the 
loan  implied  his  final  release  and  acquittance  from  all 
fiirther  loans  and  gifts  to  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter. 
[t  being  necessary  for  the  credit  of  the  family  to  make 
a  handsome  appearance  at  such  a  time,  Mrs.  Skewton 
with  the  assistance  of  an  accommodating  tradesman  resi- 


296  DOMBET  AND  SON.  ^ 

dent  in  the  parish  of  Mary-le-bone,  who  lent  oat  all 
Borts  of  articles  to  the  nobility  and  gentry,  from  a  eer 
vice  of  plate  to  an  army  of  footmen,  clapped  into  this 
house  a  silver-headed  butler  (who  was  charged  extra  on 
that  account,  as  having  the  appearance  of  an  ancient 
family  retainer),  two  very  tall  young  men  in  livery,  ami 
a  select  staff  of  kitchen-servants ;  so  that  a  legend  arose, 
down-stairs,  that  Withei-s  the  page,  released  at  once  fi-ora 
his  numerous  household  duties,  and  from  the  propulsion 
of  the  wheeled-chair  (inconsistent  with  the  metropolis), 
had  been  several  times  observed  to  rub  his  eyes  and 
pinch  his  limbs,  as  if  he  misdoubted  his  having  over- 
slept himself  at  the  Leamington  milkman's,  and  being 
still  in  a  celestial  dream.  A  variety  of  requisites  in 
plate  and  china  being  also  conveyed  to  the  same  estab- 
lishment from  the  same  convenient  source,  with  several 
miscellaneous  articles,  including  a  heat  chariot  and  a  pair 
of  bays,  Mrs.  Skewton  cushioned  herself  on  the  princi- 
pal sofa,  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude,  and  held  her  court  in 
fair  state. 

*'  And  how,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  on  the  entrance  of 
her  daughter  and  her  charge,  "  is  my  charming  Flor- 
ence ?  You  must  come  and  kiss  me,  Florence,  if  you 
please,  my  love." 

Florence  was  timidly  stooping  to  pick  out  a  place  in 
tU3  white  part  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  face,  when  that  lady 
presented  her  ear,  and  relieved  her  of  her  difficulty. 

"  Edith,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  *'  positively,  I 
—  stand  a  little  more  in  the  hght,  my  sweetest  Florence^ 
for  a  moment." 

Florence  blushingly  complied. 

"  You  don't  remember,  dearest  Edith,"  said  her  mother, 

what  you  were  when  you  were  about  the  same  age  as 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  497 

Dur  exceedingly  precious  Florence,  or  a  few  year* 
younger  ?  " 

"  I  have  long  forgotten,  mother." 

"  For  positively,  my  dear,"  said  Mra.  Skewton,  "  I  de 
think  that  I  see  a  decided  resemblance  to  wiiat  you  were 
then,  in  our  extremely  fascinating  young  friend.  And 
it  shows,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  in  a  lower  voice,  which 
conveyed  her  opinion  that  Florence  was  in  a  very  un- 
finished state,  "  what  cultivation  will  do." 

"  It  does,  indeed,"  was  Edith's  stern  reply. 

Her  mother  eyed  her  sharply  for  a  moment,  and  feel- 
ing herself  on  unsafe  ground,  said,  as  a  diversion : 

"  My  charming  Florence,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me 
once  more,  if  you  please,  my  love." 

Florence  complied,  of  course,  and  ag^iin  imprinted  her 
lips  on  Mrs.  Skewton's  ear. 

"  And  you  have  heard,  no  doubt,  my  darling  pet,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  detaining  her  hand,  "  that  your  papa, 
whom  we  all  perfectly  adore  and  dote  upon,  is  to  be 
married  to  my  dearest  Edith   this  day  week." 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  very  soon,"  returned  Florence, 
'*  but  not  exactly  when." 

"  M)  darling  Edith,"  urged  her  mother  gayly,  "  is  it 
possible  you  have  not  told  Florence  ? " 

"  Why  should  I  tell  Florence  ?  "  she  returned,  so  sndr 
denly  and  harshly,  that  Florence  could  scarcely  believe 
it  was  the  same  voice. 

Mrs.  Skewton  then  told  Florence,  as  another  and 
safer  diversion,  that  her  father  was  coming  to  dinner, 
und  that  he  would  no  doubt  be  charmingly  surprised  to 
see  her ;  as  he  had  spoken  last  night  of  dressing  in  the 
city,  and  had  known  nothing  of  Edith's  design,  the  ex- 
ecution of  which,  according  to  Mrs.  Skewton's  expecta* 


E98  DOMBEY  AlfD  SON. 

tion,  would  throw  him  into  a  perfect  ecstasy.  Florence 
was  troubled  to  hear  this ;  and  her  distress  became  so 
keen,  as  the  dinner-hour  approached,  that  if  she  had 
known  how  to  frame  an  entreaty  to  be  suffered  to  re* 
turn  home,  without  involving  her  father  in  her  expla* 
nation,  she  would  have  hurried  back  on  foot,  bareheaded, 
breathless,  and  alone,  rather  than  incur  the  risk  of  mecl- 
ing  his  displeasure. 

As  the  time  drew  nearer,  she  oould  hardly  breathe. 
She  dared  not  approach  a  window,  lest  he  should  see 
her  from  the  street.  She  dared  not  go  up-stairs  to  hide 
her  emotion,  lest  in  passing  out  at  tlie  door,  she  should 
meet  him  unexpectedly  ;  besides  which  dread  she  felt  as 
though  she  never  could  come  back  again  if  she  were 
summoned  to  his  presence.  In  this  conflict  of  her  fears, 
she  .was  sitting  by  Cleopatra's  couch,  endeavoring  to  un» 
derstand  and  to  reply  to  the  bald  discourse  of  that  lady, 
when  she  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stair. 

"  I  hear  him  now  ! "  cried  Florence,  starting.  "  He  is 
coming  ! " 

Cleopatra,  who  in  her  juvenility  was  always  playfully 
disposed,  and  who  in  her  self-engrossment  did  not  trouble 
herself  about  the  nature  of  this  agitation,  pushed  Flor- 
ence behind  her  couch,  and  dropped  a  shawl  over  her, 
preparatory  to  giving  Mr.  Dombey  a  rapture  of  surprise. 
It  was  so  quickly  done  that  in  a  moment  Florence  heard 
his  awful  step  in  the  room. 

He  saluted  his  intended  mother-in-law,  and  his  in- 
tended bride.  The  strange  sound  of  his  voice  -  thrilled 
through  the  whole  frame  of  his  child. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  come  here  and 
tell  me  how  your  pretty  Florence  is." 

"  Florence  is  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
<^o wards  the  couch. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  29 

*  At  home  ?  " 

"  At  home,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

**  My  dear  Dorabey,"  returned  Cleopatra;  with  be- 
witching vivacity  ;  "  now  are  you  sure  you  are  not  d&- 
ceiving  me  ?  I  don't  know  wliat  my  dearest  Edith  wiD 
say  to  me  when  I  make  such  a  declaration,  but  upon  my 
honor  I  am  afraid  you  are  the  falsest  of  men,  my  dea.' 
Dombey." 

Though  he  had  been  ;  and  had  been  detected  on  the 
spot,  in  tlie  most  enormous  falsehood  that  was  ever  said 
or  done  ;  he  could  hardly  have  been  more  disconcerted 
than  he  was,  when  Mrs.  Skewton  plucked  the  shawl 
away,  and  Florence,  pale  and  trembling,  rose  before 
him  like  a  ghost.  He  had  not  yet  recovered  his  pres- 
ence of  mind,  when  Florence  had  run  up  to  him,  clasped 
her  hands  round  his  neck,  kissed  his  face,  and  hurried 
out  of  the  room.  He  looked  round  as  if  to  refer  the 
matter  to  somebody  else,  but  Edith  had  gone  after  Flor- 
ence, instantly. 

"  Now  confess,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
giving  him  her  hand,  "  that  you  never  were  more  sur- 
prised and  pleased  in  yoar  life." 

"  I  never  was  more  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Nor  pleased,  my  dearest  Dombey  ?  "  returned  Mrs. 
Skewton,  holding  ^up  her  fan. 

"I  —  yes,  I  am  exceedingly  glad  to  meet  Florence 
here,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey.  He  appeared  to  consider 
gravely  about  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  more  de- 
cidedly, "Yes,  I  really  am  very  glad  indeed  to  meet 
Florence  here." 

"  You  wonder  how  she  comes  here  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Skew- 
.on,  "  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Kdith,  perhaps". —  suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 


300  DOMBET  AND  S()». 

"  Ah  !  wicked  guesser !  "  replied  Cleopati-a,  shaking 
her  head.  "Ah!  cunning,  cunning  man  !  One  shouldn't 
tell  these  things  ;  youi*  sex,  my  dear  Dombey,  are  so 
vain,  and  so  apt  to  abuse  our  weaknesses ;  but,  you 
know  my  open  soul  —  very  well ;  immediately." 

This  was  addressed  to  one  of  the  very  tall  yoang 
men  who  announced  dinner.  nonod 

"But  Edith,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  continued  in'fc 
whisper,  "when  she  cannot  have  you  near' her -—and 
as  I  tell  her,  she  cannot  expect  that  always  —  will  at 
least  have  near  her  something  or  somebody  belonging 
to  you.  Well,  how  extremely  natural  that  is  !  And  in 
this  spirit,  nothing  would  keep  her  from  riding  off  to-day 
to  fetch  our  darling  Florence.  Well,  how  excessively 
charming  that  is!" 

As  she  waited  for  an  answer,  ]\Ir.  Dombey  answered, 
"  Eminently  so." 

"  Bless  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  for  that  proof  of 
heart ! "  cried  Cleopatra,  squeezing  his  hand.  "  But  I 
am  growing  too  serious !  Take  me  down-staii-s,  like 
an  angel,  and  let  us  see  what  these  people  intend  tc 
give  us  for  dinner.     Bless  you,  dear  Dombey ! " 

Cleopatra  skipping  off  her  couch  with  tolerable  brisk- 
ness, after  the  last  benediction,  Mr.  Dombey  took  her 
arm  in  his  and  led  her  ceremoniously  down-stairs ;  on« 
of  the  very  tall  young  men  on  hire,  whose  organ  of 
veneration  was  imperfectly  developed,  thrusting  liis 
tongue  into  his  cheek,  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
3ther  very  tall  young  man  on  hire,  as  the  couple  turned 
Into  the  dining-room. 

Florence  and  Edith  were  already  there,  and  sitting 
«de  by  side.  Florence  would  have  risen  when  her 
father  entered,  to  resign  her  chair  to  him ;  but  Edith 


«  DOMBEY  AND  SON.  301 

openly  put  her  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  Mr.  Dombej^ 
took  an  opposite  place  at  the  round  table. 

The  conversation  was  almost  entirely  sustained  by 
Mrs.  Skewton.  Florence  hardly  dared  to  raise  her  eyes, 
lest  they  should  reveal  the  traces  of  tears ;  far  less  dared 
to  speak  ;  and  Edith  never  uttered  one  word,  unless  in 
answer  to  a  question.  Verily,  Cleopatra  worked  liaix], 
for  the  establishment  that  was  so  nearly  clutched  ;  and 
verily  it  should  have  been  a  rich  one  to  reward  her  I 

"And  so  your  preparations  are  nearly  finished  at  last, 
my  dear  Dombey  ? "  said  Cleopatra,  whea  the  dessert 
was  put  upon  the  table,  and  the  silver-headed  butler  had 
withdrawn.     "  Even  the  lawyer's  preparations!  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey ;  "  the  deed  of 
settlement,  the  professional  gentlemen  inform  me,  is  now 
ready,  and  as  I  was  mentioning  to  you,  Edith  has  only 
to  do  us  the  favor  to  suggest  her  own  time  for  its  exe- 
cution." 

Edith  sat  like  a  handsome  statue  ;  as  cold,  as  silent, 
and  as  still. 

"  My  dearest  love,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  do  you  hear  what 
Mr.  Dombey  says  ?  Ah,  my  dear  Dombey  ! "  aside  to 
that  gentleman,  "How  her  absence,  as  the  time  ap- 
proaches, reminds  me  of  the  days,  when  that  most 
agreeable  of  creatures,  her  papa,  was  in  your  situa* 
tion  ! " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  suggest.  It  shall  be  when  you 
please,"  said  Edith,  scarcely  Icoking  over  the  table  at 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please." 

"  Or  would  next  day,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  suit  yout 
jngagements  better  ?  " 


302  DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  I 

*  I  hare  no  engagements.  I  am  always  at  jour  dis- 
posal.    Let  it  be  when  you  like." 

"  No  engagements,  my  dear  Edith  !  "  remonstrated 
her  mother,  "  when  you  are  in  a  most  terrible  state  of 
fluny  all  day  long,  and  have  a  thousand  and  one  ap* 
pointments  with  all  sorts  of  tradespeople  ! " 

"  They  are  of  your  making,"  returned  Edith,  turning 
on  her,  with  a  slight  conti*action  of  her  brow.  "  Ton 
and  Mr.  Dombey  can  arrange  between  you." 

'*  Very  true  indeed,  my  love,  and  most  considerate  of 
you  1 "  said  Cleopatra.  "  My  darling  Florence,  you 
must  really  come  and  kiss  me  once  more,  if  you  please, 
my  dear ! " 

Singular  coincidence,  that  these  gushes  of  interest  in 
Florence  hurried  Cleopatra  away  from  almost  every 
dialogue  in  which  Edith  had  a  share,  however  trifling ! 
Florence  had  certainly  never  undergone  so  much  em- 
bracing, and  perhaps  had  never  been,  unconsciously,  so 
useful  in  her  life. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  far  from  quarrelling,  in  his  own 
breast,  with  the  manner  of  his  beautiful  betrothed.  He 
had  that  good  reason  for  sympathy  with  haughtiness  and 
coldness,  which  is  found  in  a  fellow-feeling.  It  flattered 
him  to  think  how  these  deferred  to  him,  in  Edith's  case, 
and  seemed  to  have  no  will  apart  from  his.  It  flattered 
him  to  picture  to  himself,  this  proud  and  stately  woman 
doing  the  honors  of  his  house,  and  chilling  his  guests 
after  his  own  manner.  The  dignity  of  Dombey  and 
Son  would  be  heightened  and  maintained^  indeed,  in 
such  hands. 

So  thought  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  was  left  alone  at 
the  dining-table,  and  mused  upon  his  past  and  future 
fortunes:  Ending  no  uncongeniality  in  an  air  of  scant 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  303 

and  gloomy  state  that  pervaded  the  room,  in  color  a  dark 
brown,  with  black  hatchments  of  pictures  blotching  the 
walls,  and  twenty-four  black  chairs,  with  almost  as  many 
nails  in  them  as  so  many  coffins,  waiting  hke  mutes, 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  Turkey  carpet ;  and  two  ex- 
hausted negroes  holding  up  two  withered  branches  of 
candelabra  on  the  sideboard,  and  a  musty  smell  prcvuil- 
ing  as  if  the  ashes  of  ten  thousand  dinners  were  on- 
lombed  in  the  sarcopliagus  below  it.  The  owner  of  the 
house  lived  much  abroad  ;  the  air  of  England  seldom 
agreed  long  with  a  member  of  the  Feenix  family  ;  and 
the  room  had  gradually  put  itself  into  deeper  and  still 
deeper  mourning  for  him,  until  it  was  become  so  funereal 
as  to  want  nothing  but  a  body  in  it  to  be  quite  complete. 
No  bad  representation  of  the  body,  for  the  nonce,  in 
his  unbending  form,  if  not  in  his  attitude,  Mr.  Dombey 
looked  down  into  the  cold  depths  of  the  dead  sea  of  ma- 
hogany on  which  the  fruit  dishes  and  decanters  lay  at 
anchor ;  as  if  the  subjects  of  his  thoughts  were  rising 
towards  the  surface  one  by  one,  and  plunging  down 
again.  Edith  was  there  in  all  her  majesty  of  brow  and 
figure  ;  and  close  to  her  came  Florence,  with  her  timid 
bead  turned  to  him,  as  it  had  been,  for  an  instant,  when 
she  left  the  room ;  and  Edith's  eyes  upon  her,  and 
Edith's  hand  put  out  protectingly.  A  little  figure  in  9 
low  arm-chair  came  springing  next  into  the  light,  and 
looked  upon  him  wonderingly,  with  its  bright  t>ye3  and 
its  old-young  fa^e,  gleaming  as  in  the  flickering  of  an 
evening  fire.  Again  came  Floren«  e  cljse  upon  if,  and 
absorbed  his  whole  attention.  Whether  as  a  foredoomed 
difficulty  and  disappointment  to  him  ;  whether  as  a  rival 
who  had  crossed  him  in  his  way,  and  might  again ; 
whether  as  his  child,  of  whom,  in  his  successfid  wooing 


304  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

he  could  sto(>p  to  think,  as  claiming,  at  such  a  time,  to  be 
no  more  estranged  ;  or  whether  as  a  hint  to  him  that  Ihe 
mere  appearance  of  caring  for  his  own  blood  should  be 
maintained  in  his  new  relations ;  he  best  knew.  Indif- 
ferently well,  perhaps,  at  best ;  for  marriage  company 
and  marriage  altars,  and  ambitious  scenes  —  still  blotted 
here  and  there  with  Florence  —  always  Florence  — 
turned  up  so  fast,  and  so  confusedly,  that  he  rose,  and 
went  up-stairs,  to  escape  them. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night  before  candles  were  brought; 
for  at  present  they  made  Mrs.  SkewtOn's  head  ache,  she 
complained  ;  and  in  the  mean  time  Florence  and  Mrs. 
Skewton  talked  together  (Cleopatra  being  very  anxious 
to  keep  her  close  to  herself),  or  Florence  touched  the 
piano  softly  for  Mrs.  Skewlon's  delight ;  to  make  no 
mention  of  a  few  occasions  in  the  course  of  the  evening, 
when  that  affectionate  lady  was  impelled  to  solicit  an- 
other kiss,  and  which  always  happened  after  Edith  had 
said  anything.  They  were  not  many,  however,  for  Edith 
sat  apart  by  an  open  window  during  the  whole  time  (in 
spite  of  her  mother's  fears  that  she  would  take  cold), 
and  remained  there  until  Mr.  Dombey  took  leave.  He 
was  serenely  gracious  to  Florence  when  he  did  so  ;  and 
Florence  went  to  bed  in  a  room  within  Edith's,  so  happy 
and  hopeful,  that  she  thought  of  her  late  self  as  if  it  were 
wme  other  poor  deserted  girl  who  was  to  be  pitied  for 
jer  sorrow ;  and  in  her  pity,  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

The  week  fled  fast.  There  were  drives  to  milliners 
dress-makers,  jewellers,  lawyers,  florists,  pastry-cooks  ; 
iind  Florence  was  always  of  the  party.  Florence  was  to 
go  to  the  wedding.  Florence  was  to  cast  off  her  mourn 
ing,  and  to  wear  a  brilliant  dress  on  the  occasion.  The 
iuilliner's  intentions  on  the  subject  of  this  dress  —  the 


DOMREY  AXD  SON.  305 

milliner  was  a  Frenchwoman,  and  greatly  resembled 
Mrs.  Skewtbn  —  were  so  chaste  and  elegant,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton  bespoke  one  like  it  for  herself.  The  milliner 
said  it  would  become  her  to  admiration,  and  that  all  the 
world  would  take  her  for  the  young  lady's  sister. 

The  week  fled  faster.  Edith  looked  at  nothing  and 
cared  for  nothing.  Her  rich  dresses  came  home,  and 
were  tried  on,  and  were  loudly  commended  by  Mrs. 
Skewton  and  the  milliners,  and  were  put  away  without 
a  word  from  her.  Mrs.  Skewton  made  their  plans  for 
every  day,  and  executed  them.  Sometimes  Edith  sat  in 
the  carriage  when  they  went  to  make  purchases ;  some- 
times, when  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  she  went  into 
the  shops.  But  Mrs.  Skewton  conducted  the  whole 
business,  whatever  it  happened  to  be  ;  and  Edith  looked 
on  as  uninterested  and  with  as  much  apparent  indiffer- 
ence as  if  she  had  no  concern  in  it.  Florence  might 
perhaps  have  thought  she  was  haughty  and  listless,  but 
that  she  was  never  so  to  her.  So  Florence  quenched 
her  wonder  in  her  gratitude  whenever  it  broke  out,  and 
soon  subdued  it. 

The  week  fled  faster.  It  had  nearly  winged  its  flight 
away.  The  last  night  of  the  week,  the  night  before  tho 
marriage,  was  come.  In  the  dark  room  —  for  Mrs. 
Skewton's  head  was  no  better  yet,  though  she  expected 
to  recover  permanently  to-morrow  —  were  that  lady, 
Edith,  and  Mr.  Dombey.  Edith  was  at  her  open  win- 
dow looking  out  into  the  street ;  Mr.  Dombey  and  Cleo- 
patra were  talking  softly  on  the  sofa.  It  was  growing 
late;  and  Florence  being  fatigued,  had  gone -to  bed.' 

"  My  df^ar  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  you  will  leave 
me  Florence  to-morrow,  when  you  deprive  me  of  mj 
sweetest  Edith." 

VOL.  II.  20 


506  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Dombey  said  he  would,  with  pleasure. 

**  To  have  her  about  me,  here,  while  you  are  both  af 
Paris,  and  to  think  that,  at  her  age,  I  am  assisting  in  the 
formation  of  her  mind,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  CleoiJa- 
tru,  "  will  be  a  perfect  balm  to  me  in  the  extremely  shat- 
tered state  to  which  I  shall  be  reduced." 

Edith  turned  lier  head  suddenly.  Her  listless  manner 
was  exchanged,  in  a  moment,  to  one  of  burning  interest, 
and,  unseen  in  the  darkness,  she  attended  closely  to  their 
conversation. 

Mr.  Dombey  would  be  delighted  to  leave  Florence  io 
Buch  admirable  guardianship. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  "  a  thousand 
thanks  for  your  good  opinion.  I  feared  you  were  going, 
w^ith  malice  aforethought,  as  the  dreadful  lawyers  say  — 
those  horrid  prosers !  —  to  condemn  me  to  utter  soli- 
tude." 

"  Why  do  me  so  great  an  injustice,  my  dear  madam?" 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Because  my  charming  Florence  tells  me  so  posi- 
tively she  must  go  home  to-morrow,"  returned  Cleopatra, 
"that  I  began  to  be  afraid,  my  dearest  Dombey,  you 
were  quite  a  Bashaw." 

"  I  assure  you,  madam  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  have 
laid  no  commands  on  Florence  ;  and  if  I  had,  there  are 
110  commands  like  your  wish." 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  replied  Cleopatra,  "  what  a 
oourtier  you  are !  Though  I'll  not  say  so,  either ; 
for  courtiers  have  no  heart,  and  yours  pervades  your 
eharming-life  and  character.  And  are  you  really  going 
BO  early,  my  dear  Dombey  ! " 

Oh,  indeed !  it  was  late,  and  Mr.  Dombey  feared  be 
must. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  8W 

«*  Is  this  a  fact,  or  is  it  all  a  dream ! "  lisped  Cleopatra 
*  Can  I  believe,  my  dearest  Dombey,  that  you  are  com- 
ing back  to-morrow  morning  to  deprive  me  of  my  SAvcct 
companion  ;  m^  own  Edith  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  accustomed  to  take  thingj 
literally,  reminded  Mrs,  Skewton  that  they  were  to  mee 
first  at  the  church. 

"  The  pang,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  of  consigning  a 
child,  even  to  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  is  one  of  the  most 
excruciating  imaginable  ;  and  combined  with  a  naturally 
delicate  constitution,  and  the  extreme  stupidity  of  the 
pastry-cook  who  has  undertaken  the  breakfast,  is  almost 
too  nmch  for  my  poor  strength.  But  I  shall  rally,  my 
dear  Dombey,  in  the  morning  ;  do  not  fear  for  me,  or  be 
uneasy  on  my  account.  Heaven  bless  you  !  My  dear- 
est Edith  !  "  she  cried  archly.  "  Somebody  is  going, 
pet." 

P^dith,  who  had  turned  her  head  again  towards  the 
window,  and  whose  interest  in  their  conversation  had 
ceased,  rose  up  in  her  place,  but  made  no  advance  tow- 
ards him,  and  said  nothing.  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  lofty 
gallantry  adapted  to  his  dignity  and  the  occasion,  betook 
his  creaking  boots  towards  her,  put  her  hand  to  his  lips, 
and  said,  "  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  have  the  happi- 
ness of  claiming  tliis  hand  as  Mrs.  Dombey's,"  and 
bowed  himself  solemnly  out. 

Mrs.  Skewton  rang  for  candles  as  soon  as  the  houso- 
door  had  closed  upon  him.  With  the  candles  appeared 
ber  maid,  with  the  juvenile  dress  that  was  to  delude  the 
world  to-morrow.  The  dress  had  savage  retribution  in 
tt,  as  such  dresses  ever  have,  and  made  her  infinitely 
■jlder  and  more  hideous  than  her  greasy  flannel  gown 
But  Mrs.  Skewton  tried  it  on  with  mincing  satisfai  tion ; 


508  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Bmirked  at  her  cadaverous  self  in  the  glass,  as  sh« 
thought  of  its  killing  effect  upon  the  major ;  and  snf 
fering  her  maid  to  take  it  off  again,  and  to  prepare  h&t 
for  repose,  tumbled  into  ruins  like  a  house  of  painted 
cards. 

All  this  time,  Edith  remained  at  the  dark  window 
looking  out  into  the  street.  When  she  and  her  mothei 
were  at  last  left  alone,  she  moved  from  it  for  the  first 
time  that  evening,  and  came  opposite  to  her.  The  yawn- 
ing, shaking,  peevish  figure  of  the  mother,  with  her  eyes 
raised  to  confront  the  proud  erect  form  of  the  daughter, 
whose  glance  of  fire  was  bent  downward  upon  her,  had 
a  conscious  air  upon  it,  that  no  levity,  or  temper  could 
conceal.  ti-uutf  mh  ul 

*'  I  am  tired  to  death,"  said  she.  "  You  can't  be 
trusted  for  a  moment.  You  are  worse  than  a  child. 
Child!  No  child  would  be  half  so  obstinate  and  un- 
dutiful." 

"  Listen  to  me,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  passing  these 
words  by  with  a  scorn  that  would  not  descend  to  trifle 
with  them.  "  You  must  remain  alone  here  until  I  re- 
turn." 

"  Must  remain  alone  here,  Edith,  until  you  return  ?  * 
repeated  her  mother. 

"  Or  in  that  name  upon  which  I  shall  call  to-morrow 
to  witness  what  I  do,  so  falsely,  and  so  shamefully,  1 
Bwear  I  will  refuse  the  hand  of  this  man  in  the  church 
If  I  do  not,  may  I  fall  dead  upon  the  pavement!" 

The  mother  answered  with  a  look  of  quick  alarm,  in 
no  degree  diminished  by  the  look  she  met. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  steadily,  "  that  we  are 
what  we  are.  I  wiU  have  no  youth  and  truth  dragged 
down  to  my  level.     I  will  have  no  guileless  nature  tin 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  809 

lennined,  corrupted,  and  perverted,  to  amuse  the  leisure 
of  a  world  of  mothers.  You  know  my  meaning.  Flop« 
ence  must  go  home." 

"  You  are  an  idiot,  Edith,"  cried  her  angry  mother. 
"  Do  you  expect  there  can  ever  be  peace  for  you  in  that 
house,  till  she  is  married,  and  away  ?  " 

"  Ask  me,  or  ask  yourself,  if  I  ever  expect  peace  in 
that  house,"  said  her  daughter,  "  and  you  know  the 
answer." 

"  And  am  I  to  be  told  to-night,  after  all  my  pains  and 
labor,  and  when  you  ai-e  going,  through  me,  to  be  ren- 
dered independent,"  her  mother  almost  shrieked  in  her 
passion,  while  her  palsied  head  shook  like  a  leaf,  "  that 
there  is  corruption  and  contagion  in  me,  and  that  I  am 
not  fit  company  for  a  girl !  What  are  you,  pray  ?  What 
are  you  ?  " 

"  1  have  put  the  question  to  myself,"  said  Edith,  ashy 
pale,  and  pointing  to  the  window,  "  more  than  once  when 
I  have  been  sitting  there,  and  something  in  the  faded 
likeness  of  my  sex  has  wandered  past  outside  ;  and  God 
knows  I  have  met  with  my  reply.  Oh  mother,  mother 
if  you  had  but  left  me  to  my  natural  heart  when  I  toe 
was  a  girl  —  a  younger  girl  than  Florence  —  how  dif- 
ferent I  might  have  been  !  " 

Sensible  that  any  show  of  anger  was  useless  here,  her 
mother  restrained  herself,  and  fell  a-whimpering,  and  be- 
wailed that  she  had  lived  too  long,  and  that  her  only 
child  had  cast  her  off,  and  that  duty  towards  parents  was 
forgotten  in  these  evil  days,  and  that  she  had  heard  un- 
aatural  taunts,  and  cared  for  life  no  longer. 

"  If  one  is  to  go  on  living  through  continual  scenes 
Ijke  this,"  she  whined,  "  I  am  sure  it  would  be  much 
better  for  me  to  think  of  some  means  of  putting  an  end 


810  DOMBET  AND  SOW. 

to  my  existence.  Oli !  The  idea  of  your  being  my 
daughter,  £dith,  and  addressing  rae  in  such  a  strauil" 

"  Between  us,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  mournfuUj, 
"  the  time  for  mutual   reproaches  is  past." 

"  Then  why  do  you  revive  it  ? "  whimpered  hel 
uio'her.  "You  know  that  you  are  lacerating  me  in 
the  cruellest  manner.  You  know  how  sensitive  I  am 
to  unkindness.  At  such  a  moment,  too,  when  I  have  so 
much  to  think  of,  and  am  naturally  anxious  to  appear  to 
the  l>est  advantage  !  I  wonder  at  you,  Edith.  To  make 
your  mother  a  fright  upon  your  wedding-day  !  " 

Edith  bent  the  same  fixed  look  upon  her,  as  she 
sobbed  and  rubbed  her  eyes ;  and  said  in  the  same 
low  steady  voice,  which  had  neither  risen  nor  fallen 
since  she  first  addressed  her,  "  I  have  said  that  Flor- 
ence must  go  home." 

**  Let  her  go !  "  cried  the  afflicted  and  affrighted  par- 
ent, hastily.  "  I  am  sure  I  am  willing  she  should  go. 
What  is  tlie  girl  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  is  so  much  to  me,  that  rather  than  communicate, 
or  suffer  to  be  communicated  to  her,  one  grain  of  the 
evil  that  is  in  my  breast,  mother,  I  would  renounce  you, 
as  I  would  (if  you  gave  me  cause)  renounce  him  in  the 
church  to-morrow,"  replied  Edith.  "  Leave  her  alone. 
She  shall  not,  while  I  can  interpose,  be  tampered  with 
and  tainted  by  the  lessons  I  have  learned.  This  is  no 
bard  condition  on  this  bitter  night." 

**  If  you  had  proposed  it  in  a  filial  manner,  Ediili," 
whined  her  mother,  "  perhaps  not ;  very  likely  not.  But 
such  extremely  cutting  words  "  — 

"  I'hey  are  past  and  at  an  end  between  us  now,"  said 
Edith.  *■  Take  your  own  way,  mother ;  share  as  you 
please  m   what  you   have  gained ;   spend,   enjoy,  make 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  311 

much  of  it ;  and  be  as  happy  as  you  will.  The  object 
of  our  lives  is  won.  Henceforth  let  us  swear  it  silently. 
My  lips  are  closed  upon  the  past  from  this  hour.  I  for- 
give you  your  part  in  to-morrow's  wickedness.  May 
God  forgive  my  own  !  " 

Without  a  tremor  in  her  voice  or  frame,  and  passing 
onward  with  a  foot  that  set  itself  upon  the  neck  of  every 
soft  emotion,  she  bade  her  mother  good-night,  and  re- 
paii'ed  to  her  own  room. 

But  not  to  rest :  for  there  was  no  rest  in  the  tumult 
of  her  agitation  when  alone.  To  and  fro,  and  to  and 
fro,  and  to  and  fro  again,  five  hundred  times,  among  the 
splendid  preparations  for  her  adornment  on  the  morrow ; 
with  her  dark  hair  shaken  down,  her  dark  eyes  flashing 
with  a  raging  light,  her  broad  white  bosom  red  with  the 
cruel  grasp  of  the  relentless  hand  with  which  she 
spumed  it  from  her,  pacing  up  and  down  with  an 
averted  head,  as  if  she  would  avoid  the  sight  of  her 
own  fair  person,  and  divorce  herself  from  its  compan- 
ionship. Thus,  in  the  dead  time  of  the  night  before 
her  bridal,  Edith  Granger  wrestled  vnth  her  unquiet 
spirit,  tearless,  friendless,  silent,  proud,  and  uncomplain- 
ing. 

At  length  it  happened  that  she  touched  the  open  door 
which  led  into  the  room  where  Florence  lay. 

She  started,  stopped,  and  looked  in. 

A  light  was  burning  there,  and  showed  her  Florence 
in  her  bloom  of  innocence  and  beauty,  fast  asleep.  Edith 
held  her  breath,  and  felt  herself  drawn  on  towards  her. 

Drawn  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  yet ;  at  last,  drawn  so 
near,  that  stooping  down,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the 
gentle  hand  that  lay  outside  the  bed,  and  put  it  softly 
to  her  neck.    Its  touch  was  like  the  prophet's  rod  of  old 


312  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

apon  the  rock.  Her  tears  sprung  forth  beneath  it,  aa 
she  sunk  upon  her  knees,  and  laid  her  aching  head  and 
Btreaming  hair  upon  the  pillow  by  its  side. 

Thus  Edith  Granger  passed  the  night  before  her  bri- 
dal.   Thus  tlie  sun  found  her  on  her  bridal  mormng. 


.^.o^„    .laigiilcr   iivinff  arri   cnme  tmrx  •  ske 
r";>p-.jjg  on  tbe  hoor  before  'iMT.d«»ping  ner 
Lend    agniiist  thMii.ajxi  sal)  rocjimg  hETSttf 
IV  franuc  riemcci3U  fcUoTi  of   wClcIi  Iici-  vilaiirv 


,  »,^.»,*^,(<r  ;5i.jnV  ffnfiM  K  »)/    *«»  ^A«iM»»»i  .-  ,>-f^ 


DOMBEY    AND    SON 


Yountx  m. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

THE    WEDDING. 

Dawisi',  with  its  passionless  blank  face,  steals  shiver- 
ing to  the  church  beneath  which  lies  the  dust  of  little 
Paul  and  his  mother,  and  looks  in  at  the  windows!  It 
is  cold  and  dark.  Night  crouches  yet,  upon  the  pave- 
ment, and  broods,  sombre  and  heavy,  in  nooks  and  cor- 
ners of  the  building.  The  steeple-clock,  perched  up 
alx)ve  the  houses,  emerging  from  beneath  another  of 
the  countless  ripples  in  the  tide  of  time  that  regularly 
roll  and  break  on  the  eternal  shore,  is  grayly  visible, 
like  a  stone  beacon,  recording  how  the  sea  flows  on  ;  but 
within  doors,  dawn,  at  first,  can  only  peep  at  night,  and 
see  that  it  is  there. 

Hovering  feebly  round  the  church,  and  looking  in, 
dawn  moans  and  weeps  for  its  short  reign,  and  its  tears 
trickle  on  the  window-glass,  and  the  trees  against  the 
churdi-wall  bow  their  heads,  and  wring  their  many 
hands  in  sympathy.  Night,  growing  pale  before  it, 
gradually  fades  out  of  the  church,  but  lingers  in  tlie 
vaults  below,  and  ?its  upon  the  coffins.  And  now  comes 
bright  day,  burnishing  the  steeple-clock,  and  reddening 
die  spire,  and  drying  up  the  tears  of  dawn,  and  stifling 


fe  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

its  complaining ;  and  the  scared  dawn,  following  the 
night,  and  chasing  it  from  its  last  refuge,  shrinks  into 
the  vaults  itself  and  hides,  with  a  frightened  face,  among 
the  dead,  until  night  returns,  refreshed,  to  drive  it  out. 

And  now,  the  mice,  who  have  heen  busier  with  the 
prayer-books  than  their  proper  owners,  and  with  the 
hassocks,  more  worn  bj  their  little  teeth  than  by  human 
knees,  hide  their  bright  eyes  in  their  holes,  and  gather 
close  together  in  affright  at  the  resounding  clashing  of 
the  church-door.  For  the  beadle,  that  man  of  power, 
comes  early  this  morning  with  the  sexton  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff, 
the  wheezy  little  pew-opener  —  a  mighty  dry  old  lady, 
sparely  dressed,  with  not  an  inch  of  fulness  anywhere 
al)out  her  —  is  also  here,  and  has  been  waiting  at  the 
church-gate  half  an  hour,  as  her  place  is,  for  the  beadle. 

A  vinegary  face  has  Mrs.  Miff,  and  a  mortified  bon- 
net, and  eke  a  thirsty  soul  for  sixpences  and  shillings. 
Beckoning  to  stray  people  to  come  into  pews,  has  given 
Mrs.  Miff  an  air  of  mystery  ;  and  there  is  reservation 
in  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Miff,  as  always  knowing  of  a  softer 
seat,  but  having  her  suspicions  of  the  fee.  There  is  no 
such  fact  as  Mr.  Miff,  nor  has  there  been  these  twenty 
years,  and  Mrs.  Miff  would  rather  not  allude  to  him.  He 
held  some  bad  opinions,  it  would  seem,  about  free-seats; 
and  though  Mrs.  Miff  hopes  he  may  be  gone  upwards, 
she  couldn't  positively  undertake  to  sjiy  so. 

Busy  is  Mrs.  Miff  this  morning  at  the  church-door, 
beating  and  dusting  the  altar-cloth,  the  carpet,  and  the 
cushions  ;  and  much  has  Mrs.  Miff  to  say,  about  the 
wedding  they  are  going  to  have.  Mrs.  Miff  is  told,  that 
the  new  furniture  and  alterations  in  the  house  cost  full 
6ve  thousand  pound  if  they  cost  a  penny;  and  Mrs.  Miff 
has  heard,  upon  the  best  authority,  that  tlie  lady  hasn'l 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  il 

got  a  sixpence  wherewithal  to  bless  herself.  Mrs.  Miff 
remembers,  likewise,  as  if  it  had  happened  ye.<terday, 
the  first  wife's  funeral,  and  then  the  christening,  and 
then  the  other  funeral  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff  says,  by-the-by 
ghe'U  soap-and-water  that  'ere  tablet  presently,  against 
the  company  arrive.  Mr.  Sownds,  the  beadle,  who  is 
sitting  in  the  sun  upon  the  church-steps  all  this  time 
(and  seldom  does  anything  else,  except,  in  cold  weather, 
sitting  by  the  fire),  approves  of  Mrs.  Miff"'s  discourse, 
and  asks  if  Mrs.  Miff*  has  heard  it  said,  that  the  lady 
is  uncommon  handsome  ?  The  information  Mrs.  Miff 
has  received  being  of  this  nature,  Mr.  Sownds  the 
beadle,  who,  though  orthodox  and  corpulent,  is  still  an 
admirer  of  female  beauty,  observes,  with  unction,  yes, 
he  hears  she  is  a  spanker  —  an  expression  that  seems 
somewhat  forcible  to  Mrs.  Miff",  or  would  from  any  lips 
but  those  of  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle. 

In  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  at  this  same  time,  there  ia 
great  stir  and  bustle,  more  especially  among  the  women  : 
not  one  of  whom  has  had  a  wink  of  sleep  since  four 
o'clock,  and  all  of  whom  were  full  dressed  before  six. 
Mr.  Towlinson  is  an  object  of  greater  consideration  than 
usual  to  the  house-maid,  and  the  cook  says  at  breakfast- 
time  that  one  wedding  makes  many,  which  the  house- 
maid can't  believe,  and  don't  think  true  at  all.  ^ft 
Towlinson  reserves  his  sentiments  on  this  question 
being  rendered  something  gloomy  by  the  engagement  of 
a  foreigner  with  whiskers  (Mr.  Towlinson  is  whisker- 
less  himself),  who  has  been  hired  to  accompany  th*' 
Uappy  pair  to  Paris,  and  who  is  bnsy  packing  the  new 
chariot.  In  respect  of  this  personage,  Mr.  Towlinson 
admits,  presently,  that  he  never  knew  of  any  good  that 
«ver  come  of  foreigners;    and    being    charged    by    the 


10  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

ladies  with  prejudic*',  says,  look  at  Bonaparte,  who  was 
at  the.  liead  of 'em,  and  see  what  he  was  always  up  to! 
Which  the  house-maid  says  is  very  true. 

The  pastry-cook  is  hard  at  work  in  the  funereal  room 
In  Brook-street,  and  the  very  tall  young  men  are  busy 
looking  on.  One  of  the  very  tall  young  men  already 
smells  of  sherry,  and  his  eyes  have  a  tendency  to  become 
fixed  in  his  head,  and  to  stare  at  objects  without  seeing 
them.  The  very  tall  young  man  is  conscious  of  this  fail- 
ing in  himself ;  and  informs  his  comrade  that  it's  his 
"  exciseman."  The  very  tall  young  man  would  say  ex- 
citement, but  his  speech  is  hazy. 

The  men  who  play  the  bells  have  got  scent  of  tJie 
marriage  ;  and  the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers  too  ;  and 
a  brass  band  too.  The  first  are  practising  in  a  back  set- 
tlement near  Battlebridge  ;  the  second  put  thempelvetf  in 
cominunication,  through  their  chii,f,  with  Mr.  Towlinson, 
to  whom  they  offer  terms  to  be  bought  off;  and  the  third, 
in  the  person  of  an  artful  trombone,  lurks  an<l  dodges 
round  the  corner,  waiting  for  some  ti-aitor  tra«lesman  lo 
reveal  the  place  and  hour  of  breakfast,  for  a  bribe.  Ex- 
pectation and  excitement  extend  further  yet,  and  take  a 
wider  range.  From  Balls  Pond  Mr.  Perch  brings  Mrs. 
Perch  to  spend  the  day  with  Mr.  Dombey's  servants,  and 
accompany  them,  surreptitiously,  to  see  tlie  wedding.  In 
Mr.  Toots's  lodgings,  Mi-.  Toots  attii'es  himself  as  if  he 
were  at  least  the  bridegroom :  determined  to  beliokl  the 
spectacle  in  splendor  from  a  secret  corner  of  the  gallery, 
and  thither  to  convey  the  Chicken  :  for  it  is  Mr.  Toots's 
desperate  intent  to  point  out  Florence  to  the  Chicken. 
*hen  and  there,  an  1  openly  to  say,  "  Now.  Cliicken,  1 
will  not  deceive  you  any  longer ;  the  friend  I  liave 
lometimes  mentioned  to  you  is  myself;  Miss   Doinbey 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  11 

8  the  object  of  my  passion;  what  are  your  opinions, 
Chicken,  in  this  state  of  things,  and  what,  on  the  spot, 
do  you  advise  ?  "  The  so-much-to-be-astonished  Chicken, 
iu  the  mean  while,  dips  his  beak  into  a  tankard  of  strong 
beer,  in  Mr.  Toots's  kitchen,  and  pecks  up  two  pounds 
of  beefsteaks.  In  Princess's-place,  Miss  Tox  is  up  and 
doing ;  for  she  too,  though  in  sore  distress,  is  resolved 
to  put  a  shilHng  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Miff,  and  see  the 
ceremony,  which  has  a  cruel  fascination  for  her,  from 
some  lonely  corner.  The  quarters  of  the  Wooden  Mid- 
shipman are  all  alive  ;  for  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  ankle- 
jacks  and  with  a  huge  shirt-collar,  is  seated  at  his 
breakfast,  listening  to  Rob  the  Grinder  as  he  reads  the 
marriage-service  to  him  beforehand,  under  orders,  to  the 
end  that  the  captain  may  perfectly  understand  the  so- 
lemnity he  is  about  to  witness :  for  which  purpose,  the 
captain  gravely  lays  injunctions  on  his  chaplain,  from 
time  to  time,  to  "  put  about,"  or  to  '*  overhaul  that  'ere 
article  again,"  or  to  stick  to  his  own  duty,  and  leave  the 
Amens  to  him,  the  captain ;  one  of  which  he  repeats 
whenever  a  pause  is  made  by  Rob  the  Grinder,  with 
sonorous  satisfaction. 

Besides  all  this,  and  much  more,  twenty  nursery-maids 
in  Mr.  Dombey's  street  alone,  have  promised  twenty 
families  of  little  women,  whose  instinctive  interest  in 
nuptials  dates  from  their  cradles,  that  they  shall  go  and 
see  the  marriage.  Truly,  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  has 
good  reason  to  feel  himself  in  office,  as  he  suns  his 
portly  figure  on  the  church-steps,  waiting  for  the  mar- 
riage hour.  Truly,  Mrs.  Miff  has  cause  to  pounce  on 
an  unlucky  dwarf  child,  with  a  giant  baby,  who  peeps 
in  at  the  porch,  and  drive  her  forth  with  indignation  I 

Cousin  Feenix  has  come  over  from  abroad,  expressly 


12  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

to  attend  the  marriage.  Cousin  Feenix  was  a  man  abojt 
town,  forty  years  ago ;  but  he  is  still  so  juvenile  in  figure 
and  in  manner,  and  so  well  got  up,  that  strangers  are 
amazed  when  they  discover  latent  wrinkles  in  his  lord- 
ship's face,  and  crows'  feet  in  his  eyes  ;  and  first  observe 
him,  not  exactly  certain  when  he  walks  across  a  room, 
of  going  quite  straight  to  where  he  wants  to  go.  But 
Cousin  Feenix,  getting  up  at  half-past  seven  o'clock  or 
so,  is  quite  another  thing  from  Cousin  Feenix  got  up : 
and  very  dim,  indeed,  he  looks,  while  being  shaved  at 
Long's  Hotel,  in  Bond-street. 

Mr.  Dombey  leaves  his  dressing-room,  amidst  a  gen- 
eral whisking  away  of  the  women  on  the  staircase,  who 
disperse  in  all  directions,  with  a  great  rustling  of  skirts, 
except  Mrs.  Perch,  who,  being  (but  that  she  always  is) 
in  an  interesting  situation,  is  not  nimble,  and  is  obliged 
to  face  him,  and  is  ready  to  sink  with  confusion  as  she 
courtesies ;  —  may  Heaven  avert  all  evil  consequences 
from  the  house  of  Perch  !  Mr.  Dombey  walks  up  to 
the  drawing-room  to  bide  his  time.  Gorgeous  are  Mr. 
Dombey's  new  blue  coat,  fawn-colored  pantaloons,  and 
lilac  waistcoat ;  and  a  whisper  goes  about  the  house, 
that  Mr.  Dombey's  hair  is  curled. 

A  double-knock  announces  the  arrival  of  the  major, 
who  is  gorgeous  too,  and  wears  a  whole  geranium  in  his 
button-hole,  and  has  his  hair  curled  tight  and  crisp,  as 
well  the  native  knows. 

"  Dombey  ! "  says  the  major,  putting  out  both  hands,  _ 
*  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  how  are  You  ?  " 

"  By  Jove,  sir,"  says  the  major,  "  Joey  B.  is  in  such 
rase  this  morning,  sir,"  —  and  here  he  hits  himself  hard 
ipoii  the  l.'i-past  —  "  in  such  case  this  morning,  sir,  that, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  |f 

clamrae,  Dombey,  lie  has  half  a  mind  to  mjike  a  double 
marriage  of  it,  sir,  and  take  the  raothei." 

Mr.  Dombey  smiles ;  but  faintly,  even  for  hira ;  for 
Mr.  Dombey  feels  that  he  is  going  to  be  relattd  to  the 
mother,  and  that,  under  those  circumstances,  she  is  not 
to  be   joked  about.  .   ^ 

•*  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  seeing  this,  "  I  give  yoa 
joy.  I  congratulate  you,  Dombey.  By  the  Lord,  sir," 
says  the  major,  "  you  are  more  to  be  envied,  this  day, 
than  any  man  in  England ! " 

Here  again,  Mr.  Dombey's  assent  is  qualified ;  be- 
cause he  is  going  to  confer  a  great  distinction  on  a  lady ; 
and,  no  doubt,  she  is  to  be  envied  most. 

"  As  to  Edith  Granger,  sir,"  puj-sues  (he  major,  "  there 
is  not  a  woman  in  all  Europe  but  might  —  and  would, 
sir,  you  will  allow  Bagstock  to  add  —  and  would  —  give 
\nT  ears,  and  her  ear-rings,  too,  to  be  in  Edith  Granger's 
place." 

"  You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  major,"  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Dombey,"  returns  the  major,  "  you  know  it.  Let 
us  have  no  false  delicacy.  You  know  it.  Do  you 
know  it,  or  do  you  not,  Dombey?"  says  the  major, 
almost  in  a  passion. 

"  Oh,  really,  major  "  — 

"  Damme,  sir,"  retorts  the  major,  "  do  you  know  that 
fact,  or  do  you  not  ?  Dombey !  Is  old  Joe  your  friend  ' 
Are  we  on  that  footing  of  unreserved  intimacy,  Dombey, 
that  may  justify  a  man  —  a  blunt  old  Joseph  B.,  sir  — 
in  speaking  out;  or  am  I  to  take  open  order,  Dombey, 
and  to  keep  my  distance,  and  to  stand  on  forms?" 

"  My  dear  Major  Bagstock,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
4  gratified  air,  "  you  are  quite  warm." 


14  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

*  By  gad,  sir,"  says  the  major,  "  I  am  warm.  Joseph 
B.  does  not  deny  it,  Dombey.  He  is  warm.  This  is 
an  occasion,  sir,  that  calls  forth  all  the  honest  sympathies 
remaining  in  an  old,  infernal,  battered,  used  up,  invalided, 
J.  B.  carcass.  And  I  tell  you  what,  Dombey  —  at  such 
a  time  a  man  must  blurt  out  what  be  feels,  or  put  a  muz< 
zle  on  ;  and  Joseph  Bagstock  tells  you  to  your  face, 
Dombey,  as  he  tells  his  club  behind  your  back,  that  he 
never  will  be  muzzled  when  Paul  Dombey  is  in  ques- 
tion. Now,  damme,  sir,"  concludes  the  major,  with  great 
firmness,  "  what  do  you  make  of  that  ?  " 

**  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  assure  you  that  I  am 
really  obliged  to  you.  I  had  no  idea  of  checking  your 
too  partial  friendship." 

"  Not  too  partial,  sir ! "  exclaims  the  choleric  major. 
"Dombey,  I  deny  it!" 

"  Your  friendship  I  will  say  then,"  pursues  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "  on  any  account.  Nor  can  I  forget,  major,  on  such 
an  occasion  as  the  present,  how  much  I  am  indebted  to 
it." 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  with  appropriate  action, 
•*  that  is  the  hand  of  Joseph  Bagstock ;  of  plain  old  Joey 
B.,  sir,  if  you  like  that  better !  That  is  the  hand,  cf 
which  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of  York  did  mo 
the  honor  to  observe,  sir,  to  His  Royal  Highness  the  late 
Duke  of  Kent,  that  it  was  the  hand  of  Josh. ;  a  rough 
ind  tough,  and  possibly  an  up-to-snuff,  old  vagabond. 
Dombey,  may  the  present  moment  be  the  least  unhappy 
of  our  lives.     God  bless  you  I  " 

Now,  enters  Mr.  Carker,  gorgeous  likewise,  and  smil- 
hig  like  a  wedding-guest  indeed.  He  can  scarcely  let 
Mi.  Dombey's  hand  go,  he  is  so  congratulatory  ;  and  he 
ihakes  the  major's  hand  so  heartily  at  the  same  time 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  15 

Ihat  his  voice  shakes  too,  in  accord  with  his  arms,  as  it 
comes  sliding  from  between  his  teeth. 

'•  The  very  day  is  auspicious,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  "The 
brightest  and  most  genial  weather !  I  hope  I  am  not  a 
moment  late  ?  " 

"  Punctual  to  your  time,  sir,"  says  the  major. 

"  I  am  rejoiced,  I  am  sure,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  *'  I  was 
afraid  I  might  be  a  few  seconds  after  the  appointed 
time,  for  I  was  delayed  by  a  procession  of  wagons 
and  I  took  the  liberty  of  riding  round  to  Brook-street* 
—  this  to  Mr.  Dombey  — "  to  leave  a  few  poor  rari- 
ties of  flowers  for  Mrs.  Dombey.  A  man  in  my  posi- 
tion, and  so  distinguished  as  to  be  invited  here,  is  proud 
to  offer  some  homage  in  acknowledgment  of  his  vassal- 
age :  and  as  I  have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Dombey  is  over- 
whelmed with  what  is  costly  and  magnificent ;"  with  a 
strange  glance  at  his  patron  ;  "  I  hope  the  very  poverty 
of  my  offering,  may  find  favor  for  it." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  is  to  be,"  returns  Mr.  Dombey, 
condescendingly,  "  will  be  very  sensible  of  your  atten- 
tion, Carker,  I  am  sure." 

**  And  if  she  is  to  be  Mrs.  Dombey  this  morning,  sir," 
says  (he  major,  putting  down  his  coffee-cup,  and  looking 
at  his  watch,  "it's  high  time  we  were  off!" 

Forth,  in  a  barouche,  ride  Mr.  Dombey,  Major  Bag- 
sUck,  and  ]\Ir.  Carker,  to  the  church.  Mr.  Sownds  the 
beadle  has  long  risen  from  the  steps,  and  is  in  waiting 
with  his  cocked  hat  in  his  hand.  Mrs,  Miff  courtesies 
ixnd  proposes  chairs  in  the  vestry.  Mr.  Dombey  prefers 
remaining  in  th3  church.  As  he  looks  up  at  the  organ, 
Miss  Tox  in  the  gallery  shrinks  behind  the  fat  leg 
of  a  cherub  on  a  monument,  with  cheeks  like  a  young 
Wind.     Captain  Cuttle,  on  the  contrary,  stands  up  and 


16  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

waves  his  hook,  in  token  of  welcome  and  encoui-Hgometfi 
Mr.  Toots  informs  the  Chicken,  behind  his  hand,  that  the 
middle  gentleman,  he  in  the  fawn-colored  pantaloons,  is 
the  father  of  his  love.  The  Chicken  hoarsely  whispers 
Mr.  Toots  that  he's  as  stiff  a  cove  as  ever  he  see,  but 
tliat  it  is  within  the  resources  of  Science  to  double  him 
up,  with  one  blow  in  the  waistcoat. 

Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff  are  eying  Mr.  Dombey 
from  a  little  distance,  when  the  noise  of  approaching 
wheels  is  heard,  and  Mr.  Sownds  goes  out,  Mrs.  Miff, 
meeting  Mr.  Dombey's  eye  as  it  is  witlidrawn  from  the 
presumptuous  maniac  up-stairs,  who  salutes  him  with 
so  much  urbanity,  drops  a  courtesy,  and  informs  him 
that  she  believes  his  "good  lady  "  is  come.  Then,  there 
is  a  crowding  and  a  whispering  at  the  door,  and  the 
good  lady  enters,  with  a  haughty  step. 

There  is  no  sign  upon  her  face,  of  last  night's  suffer- 
ing ;  there  is  no  trace  in  her  manner,  of  the  woman  on 
the  bended  knees,  reposing  her  wild  head,  in  beautiful 
abandonment,  upon  the  pillow  of  the  sleeping  girl.  That 
girl,  all  gen  lie  and  lo\'ely,  is  at  her  side  —  a  striking 
contrast  to  her  own  disdainful  and  defiant  figure,  stand- 
ing there,  composed,  erect,  inscrutable  of  will,  resplen- 
dent and  majestic  in  the  zenith  of  its  charms,  yet  beating 
down,  and  treading  on,  the  admiration  that  it  challenges. 

There  is  a  pause  while  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  glides 
tnto  the  vestry  for  the  clergyman  and  clerk.  At  this 
juncture,  Mrs.  Skewton  speaks  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  more 
distinctly  and  emphatically  than  her  custom  is,  and  mov- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  close  to  Edith. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  says  the  good  mama,  "  I  fear  1 
must  relinquish  darling  Florence  after  all,  and  suffer  her 
to  go  home,  as  she  herself  proposed.     After  my  loss  of 


nOMBEY  AND  SON.  17 

to-day,  my  dear  Dombey,  I  feel  I  shall  not  have  spirits, 
even  for  her  society." 

"  Had  she  not  better  stay  with  you  ? "  returns  the 
bridegroom. 

"  I  think  not,  my  dear  Dorabey.  No,  I  think  not.  I 
rihall  be  better  alone.  Besides,  my  dearest  Edith  will 
De  her  natural  and  constant  guardian  when  you  return, 
and  I  had  better  not  encroach  upon  her  trust,  perhaps. 
She  might  be  jealous.     Eh,  dear  Edith  ?  " 

The  affectionate  mama  presses  her  daughter's  arm, 
as  she  says  this:  perhaps  entreating  her  attention  ear- 
nestly. 

"  To  be  serious,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  resumes,  "  I 
will  relinquish  our  dear  child,  and  not  inflict  my  gloora 
upon  her.  We  have  settled  that,  just  now.  She  fully 
understivnds,  dear  Dombey.  Edith,  my  dear,  —  she  fully 
understands." 

Again,  the  good  mother  presses  her  daughter's  arm. 
Mr.  Dombey  offers  no  additional  remonstrance ;  for  the 
clergyman  and  clerk  appear;  and  Mrs.  Miff,  and  Mr. 
Sownds  the  beadle,  group  the  party  in  their  proper 
places  at  the  altar  rails. 

"  Who    jriveth    this    woman    to    be    married    to    this 


man 


?" 


Cousin  Feenix  does  that.  He  has  come  from  Baden- 
Baden  on  purpose.  "  Confound  it,"  Cousin  Feenix  says 
—  good-natured  creature.  Cousin  Feenix  —  "  when  we 
do  get  a  rich  city  fellow  into  the  family,  let  us  show  him 
some  attention  ;  let  us  do*  something  for  him." 

"  /  give  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man,"  saith 
Cousin  Feenix  therefore.  Cousin  Feenix,  meaning  to 
go  in  a  straight  line,  but  turning  off  sideways  by  reason 
nf  his  wilful  legs,  gives  the  wrong  woman  to  be  married 

VOL.    III.  9 


18  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  this  man,  at  first  —  to  wit,  a  bridesmaid  nf  some  con- 
dition, distantly  connected  with  the  family,  and  ten  yean 
Mrs.  Skewton's  junior — but  Mrs.  Miff,  interposing  her 
mortified  bonnet,  dexterously  turns  him  back,  and  runs 
him,  as  on  castors,  full  at  the  "  good  lady  "  whom 
Cousin  Feenix  giveth  to  be  married  to  this  man  ac- 
cordingly. 

And  will  they  in  the  sight  of  heaven  —  ? 

Ay,  that  they  will :  Mr.  Dombey  says  he  will.  And 
what  says  Edith  ?     She  will. 

So,  from  that  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for 
richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and 
to  cherish,  till  death  do  them  part,  they  plight  their  troth 
to  one  another,  and  are  married. 

In  a  firm,  free  hand,  the  bride  subscribes  her  name  in 
the  register,  when  they  adjourn  to  the  vestry.  "  There 
a'n't  a  many  ladies  comes  here,"  Mrs.  Miff  says  with 
a  courtesy  —  to  look  at  Mrs.  Miff,  at  such  a  season,  is 
to  make  her  mortified  bonnet  go  down  with  a  dip  — 
"  writes  their  names  like  this  good  lady  !  "  Mr.  Sownds 
the  beadle  thinks  it  is  a  truly  spanking  signature,  and 
worthy  of  the  writer  —  this,  however,  between  himself 
and  conscience. 

Florence  signs  too,  but  unapplauded,  for  her  hand 
shakas.  All  the  party  sign  ;  Cousin  Feenix  last ;  who 
puts  his  noble  name  into  a  wrong  place,  and  enrolls  him- 
self as  having  been  born,  that  morning. 

The  major  now  salutes  the  bride  right  gallantly,  aud 
cArries  out  that  branch  of  milit^iry  tactics  in  reference  to 
all  the  ladies :  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Skewton's  being 
extremely  hard  to  kiss,  and  squeaking  shrilly  in  the 
sacred  edifice.  The  example  is  followed  by  Cousin 
5'eenix,  and  even  by  Mr.  Dombey.     La>tly,  Mr.  Car 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  1^ 

ker,  with  his  white  teeth  glistening,  approaches  Edith, 
more  as  if  he  meant  to  bite  her,  than  to  taste  the  sweets 
that  hnger  on  her  lips. 

There  is  a  glow  upon  her  proud  cheek,  and  a  flashing 
in  her  eyes,  that  may  be  meant  to  stay  him ;  but  it  does 
not,  for  he  salutes  her  as  the  rest  have  done,  and  wishes 
her  all  happiness. 

"  If  wishes,"  says  he  in  a  low  voice,  "  are  not  super- 
fluous, applied  to  such  a  union." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  she  answers,  with  a  curled  lip, 
and  a  heaving  bosom. 

But,  does  Edith  feel  still,  as  on  the  night  when  she 
knew  that  Mr.  Dombey  would  return  to  offer  his  al- 
liance, that  Carker  knows  her  thoroughly,  and  reads  her 
right,  and  that  she  is  more  degraded  by  his  knowledge 
of  her,  than  by  aught  else  ?  Is  it  for  this  reason  th»4 
her  haughtiness  shrinks  beneath  his  smile,  like  snow 
within  the  hand  that  grasps  it  firmly,  and  that  her  im- 
perious glance  droops  in  meeting  his,  and  seeks  tW 
ground  ? 

"  I  am  proud  to  see,"  says  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  servila 
stooping  of  his  neck,  which  the  revelations  making  b» 
his  eyes  and  teeth  proclaim  to  be  a  lie,  "  I  am  proud  to 
see  tliat  my  humble  offering  is  graced  by  Mrs.  DombeyV 
hand,  and  permitted  to  hold  so  favored  a  place  in  so  joy- 
ful an  occasion." 

Though  she  bends  her  head,  in  answer,  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  momentary  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  shf 
would  crush  the  flowers  it  holds,  and  fling  them,  with 
contempt,  rpon  the  ground.  But,  she  puts  the  hand 
through  the  arm  of  her  new  husband,  who  has  been 
standing  near,  conversing  with  the  major,  and  i-^  proud 
vgain,  and  motionless,  and  silent. 


20  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  carriages  are  once  more  at  the  church-door.  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  his  bride  upon  his  arm,  conducts  her 
through  the  twenty  families  of  little  women  who  are  on 
the  steps,  and  every  one  of  whom  remembers  thvi  fashion 
and  the  color  of  her  every  article  of  dress  from  that  mo- 
ment, and  reproduces  it  on  her  doll,  who  is  forever  being 
married.  Cleopatra  and  Cousin  Feenix  enter  the  same 
carnage.  The  major  hands  into  a  second  carriage,  Flor- 
ence, and  the  bridesmaid  who  so  narrowly  escaped  being 
given  away  by  mistake,  and  then  enters  it  himself,  and  is 
followed  by  Mr.  Carker.  Horses  prance  and  caper;  coach- 
men and  footmen  shine  in  fluttering  favors,  flowers,  and 
new-made  liveries.  Away  they  dash  and  rattle  through 
the  streets ;  and  as  they  pass  along,  a  thousand  heads 
are  turned  to  look  at  them,  and  a  thousand  sober  moral- 
ists revenge  themselves  for  not  being  married  too,  that 
morning,  by  reflecting  that  these  people  little  think  such 
happiness  can't  last. 

Miss  Tox  emerges  from  behind  the  cherub's  leg,  when 
all  is  quiet,  and  comes  slowly  down,  from  the  gallery. 
Miss  Tox's  eyes  are  red,  and  her  pocket-handkerchief 
is  damp.  She  is  wounded,  but  not  exasperated,  and 
she  hopes  they  may  be  happy.  She  quite  admits  to  her- 
self the  beauty  of  the  bride,  and  her  own  comparatively 
feeble  and  faded  attractions ;  but  the  stately  image  of 
Mr.  Dombey  in  his  lilac  waistcoat,  and  his  fawn-colored 
oantaloons,  is  present  to  her  mind,  and  Miss  Tox  weepa 
afresh;  behind  her  veil,  on  her  way  home  to  Princess's- 
place.  Captain  Cuttle,  having  joined  in  all  the  amens 
and  responses,  with  a  devout  growl,  feels  much  improved 
uy  his  religious  exercises ;  and  in  a  peaceful  frame  of 
mind,  pervades  the  body  of  the  church,  glazed  hat  in 
hand,  and  reads  the  tablet  to  the  memory  of  Utile  Paul, 


nOMBET  AND  SON.  21 

ri.e  gallant  Mr.  Toots,  attended  by  the  fiuthfiil  Chicketi; 
leaves  tlie  building  in  torments  of  love.  The  Chicken  ia 
as  yet  unable  to  elaborate  a  scheme  for  winning  Florence, 
but  his  first  idea  has  gained  possession  of  him,  and  he 
thinks  the  doubling  up  of  Mr.  Dombey  would  be  a  move 
in  the  right  direction.  Sir.  Dombey's  servants  come  cut 
of  tlieir  hiding-places,  and  prepare  to  rush  to  Brook- 
Btreet,  when  they  are  delayed  by  symptoms  of  indisposi- 
tion on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who  entreats  a  glass  of 
water,  and  becomes  alarming ;  Mrs.  Perch  gets  better 
Boon,  however,  and  is  borne  away  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff,  and 
Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  sit  upon  the  steps  to  count  what 
they  have  gained  by  the  affair,  and  talk  it  over,  while 
the  sexton  tolls   a  funeral. 

Now,  the  carriages  arnve  at  the  bride's  residence,  and 
the  players  on  the  bells  begin  to  jingle,  and  the  band 
strikes  up,  and  Mr.  Punch,  that  model  of  connubial  bliss, 
salutes  his  wife.  Now,  the  people  run  and  push,  and 
press  round  in  a  gaping  throng,  while  Mr.  Dombey, 
leading  Mrs.  Dombey  by  the  hand,  advances  solemnly 
into  the  Feenix  halls.  Now,  the  rest  of  the  wedding- 
party  alight,  and  enter  after  them.  And  why  does  Mr. 
Carker,  passing  through  the  people  to  the  hall-door, 
think  of  the  old  woman  who  called  to  him  in  the  grove 
that  morning?  Or  why  does  Florence,  as  she  passes, 
think,  with  a  tremble,  of  her  childhood,  when  she  was 
lo3t,  and  of  the  visage  of  good  Mrs.  Brown  ? 

Now,  there  are  more  congratulations  on  this  happiest 
of  days,  and  mor^  company,  though  not  much ;  and  now 
:hey  leave  the  drawing-room,  and  range  themselves  at 
table  in  the  dark-brown  dining-room,  which  no  confec- 
lioner  can  brighten  up,  let  him  garnish  the  exhausted 
uegroes  with  as  many  flowers  and  love-knots  as  he  will 


22  DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 

The  pastry-cook  has  done  his  duty  like  a  man,  ihougli, 
and  a  rich  breakfast  is  set  forth.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chick 
have  joined  the  party,  among  others.  Mrs.  Chick  ad- 
mires that  Edith  should  be,  by  nature,  such  a  perfect 
Doinbsy ;  and  is  affable  and  confidential  to  Mrs.  Skew 
ton,  whose  mind  is  relieved  of  a  great  load,  an  1  who 
takes  her  share  of  the  champagne.  The  very  tall  young 
man  who  suffered  from  excitement  early,  is  better ;  but 
a  vague  sentiment  of  repentance  has  seized  upon  him, 
and  he  hates  the  other  very  tall  young  man,  and  wrests 
dishes  from  him  by  violence,  and  tai^es  a  grim  delight  in 
disobliging  the  company.  The  company  are  cool  and 
calm,  and  do  not  outrage  the  black  hatchments  of  pic- 
tures looking  down  upon  them,  by  any  excess  of  mirth. 
Cousin  Feenix  and  the  major  are  the  gayest  there ;  but 
Mr.  Carker  has  a  smile  for  the  whole  table.  He  has 
an  especial  smile  for  the  bride,  who  very,  very,  seldom 
meets  it. 

Cousin  Feenix  rises,  when  the  company  have  break- 
fasted, and  the  servants  have  left  the  room ;  and  won- 
derfully young  he  looks,  with  his  white  wristbands  al- 
most covering  his  hands  (otherwise  rather  bony),  and 
the  bloom  of  the  champagne  in  his  cheeks. 

"  Upon  my  honor,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  although  it's 
ftn  unusual  sort  of  thing  in  a  private  gentleman's  house, 
I  must  beg  leave  to  call  upon  you  to  drink  what  is  usu- 
ally c^ll^d  a  —  in  fact  a  toast." 

The  major  very  hoarsely  indicates  his  approvaL  Mr. 
Carker  bending  his  head  forward  over  the  table  in  the 
ilirection  of  Cousin  Feenix,  smiles  and  nods  a  great 
many  times. 

"A  —  in  fact  it's  not  a  "  —  Cousin  Feenix  beginning 
Kgain,  thus,  comes  to  a  dead  stop. 


DOMBEY  Am)  SON.  Sj^ 

family  of  which  I  am  a  member,  on  the  acquisition  of 
ray  fiiend  Dorabey.  I  congratulate  my  friend  Dombey 
on  his  union  with  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
who  possesses  every  requisite  to  make  a  man  happy; 
and  I  take  the  liberty  of  calling  on  you  all,  in  point  of 
factj  to  congratulate  both  my  friend  Dombey  and  mj 
lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  on  the  present  OO" 
casion."  * 

Tlie  speech  of  Cousin  Feenix  is  received  with  great 
applause,  and  Mr.  Dombey  returns  thanks  on  behalf  of 
himself  and  Mrs.  Dombey,  J.  B.  shortly  afterwards  pro- 
poses Mrs.  Skewton.  The  breakfast  knguishes  when  that 
is  done,  the  violated  hatchments  are  avenged,  and  Edith 
rises  to  assume  her  travelling  dress. 

AH  the  servants  in  the  mean  time,  have  been  break- 
fasting below.  Champagne  has  grown  too  common 
among  them  to  be  mentioned,  and  roast  fowls,  raised 
pies,  and  lobster  salad,  have  become  mere  drugs.  The 
very  tall  young  man  has  recovered  his  spirits,  and  again 
alludes  to  the  exciseman.  His  comrade's  eye  begins  to 
emulate  his  own,  and  he,  too,  stares  at  objects  without 
taking  cognizance  thereof.  There  is  a  general  redness 
in  the  faces  of  the  ladies ;  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Perch 
particularly,  who  is  joyous  and  beaming,  and  lifted  so  far 
above  the  cares  of  life,  that  if  she  were  asked  just  now 
to  direct  a  wayfarer  to  Ball's  Pond,  where  her  own 
cares  lodge,  she  would  have  some  difficulty  in  recalling 
the  way.  Mr.  Towlinson  has  proposed  the  happy  pair ; 
to  which  the  silver-headed  butler  has  responded  neatly, 
jind  with  emotion  ;  for  he  half  begins  to  think  he  w  an 
old  retainer  of  the  family,  and  that  he  is  bound  to  be 
affected  by  those  changes.  The  whole  parly,  and  es- 
pecially the  ladies,  are  very  frolicsome.     Mr.  Dombey's 


24  DOJIBEY  AND  SON. 

BoleranTy  returns  the  bow  ;  everybody  is  more  or  less 
gratified  and  affected  by  this  extraordinary,  and  perhaps 
unprecedented,  appeal  to  the  feelings. 

"  I  have  not,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  enjoyed  those 
opportunities  which  I  could  have  desired,  of  cultivating 
the  acquaintance  of  my  friend  Dombey,  and  studying 
those  qualities  which  do  equal  honor  to  his  head,  and, 
in  point  of  fact,  to  his  heart ;  for  it  has  been  my  mis- 
fortune to  be,  as  we  used  to  say  in  my  time  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  when  it  was  not  the  custom  to  al- 
lude to  the  Lords,  and  when  the  order  of  parliamentary 
proceedings  was  perhaps  better  observed  that  it  is  now 
—  to  be  in  —  in  point  of  fact,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  cher- 
ishing his  joke,  with  great  slyness,  and  finally  bringing  it 
out  with  a  jerk,  "  '  in  another  place ! ' " 

The  mnjor  falls  into  convulsions,  and  is  recovered  with 
difficulty. 

"  But  I  know  sufficient  of  my  friend  Dombey,"  re- 
sumes Cousin  Feenix  in  a  graver  tone,  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  become  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,  "  to  l^)w 
that  he  is,  in  point  of  fact,  what  may  be  emphatically 
called  a  —  a  merchant  —  a  British  merchant  —  and  a  — 
and  a  man.  And  although  I  have  been  resident  abroad 
for  some  years  (it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  re- 
ceive my  friend  Dombey,  and  everybody  here,  at  Baden- 
Baden,  and  to  have  an  opportunity  of  making  'em  known 
to  the  Grand  Duke),  still  I  know  enough,  I  flatter  my 
eelf,  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  to  kno«  - 
that  she  possesses  every  requisite  to  make  a  man  happy 
and  that  her  marriage  with  my  friend  Dombey  is  one  of 
inclination  and  affection  on  both  sides." 

Many  smiles  and  nods  from  Mr.  Carker. 

**  Therefore,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  I  congratulate  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  8ft 

"  Hear,  hear ! "  says  the  major,  in  a  tone  of  couvic 
lion. 

Mr  Carker  softly  claps  his  hands,  and  bending  fo^ 
ward  u%'er  the  table  again,  smiles  and  nods  a  great  many 
more  tiraes^than  before,  as  if  he  were  particularly  struck 
by  this  last  observation,  and  desired  personally  to  ex- 
press his  sense  of  the  good  it  has  done  him. 

"  It  IS,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  an  occasion  in  fact, 
when  the  general  usages  of  life  may  be  a  little  departed 
from,  without  impx'opriety ;  and  although  I  never  was 
an  orator  in  my  life,  and  when  I  was  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  had  the  honor  of  seconding  the  address, 
vvaa  —  in  fact,  was  laid  up  for  a  fortnight  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  failure  "  — 

The  major  and  Mr.  Carker  are  so  much  delighted  by 
this  fragment  of  personal  history,  that  Cousin  Feenix 
laughs,  and  addressing    them   individually,  goes   on    to 

•'  And  in  point  of  foct,  when  I  was  devilish  ill  —  still, 
you  know,  I  feel  that  a  duty  devolves  upon  me.  And 
when  a  duty  devolves  upon  an  Englishman,  he  is  bound 
to  get  out  of  it,  in  my  opinion,  in  the  best  way  he  can. 
Well !  our  family  has  had  the  gratification,  to-day,  of 
connecting  itself,  in  the  person  of  my  lovely  and  accom- 
plished relative,  whom  I  now  see  —  in  point  of  fact, 
present "  —  ^ 

Here  there  is  general  applause. 

"  Present,"  repeats  Cousin  Feenix,  feeling  that  it  is  a 
neat  point  which  will  bear  repetition  —  "  with  one  who — 
that  i>  to  say,  with  a  man,  at  whom  the  finger  of  scorn 
ran  never  —  in  fact,  with  my  honorable  friend  Dombey, 
if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so." 

Cousin  Feenix  bows  to  Mr.  Dombey ;  Mr.  Dombej 


26  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

cook,  who  generally  takes  the  lead  in  society,  has  saidi 
it  is  impossible  to  settle  down  after  this,  and  why  not  go, 
in  a  party,  to  the  play  ?  Everybody  (Mrs.  Perch  in- 
cluded) has  agreed  to  this ;  even  the  native  who  is  tiger- 
ish in  his  drink,  and  who  alarms  the  ladies  (Mrs.  Perch 
particularly)  by  the  rolling  of  his  eyes.  One  of  the 
very  tall  young  men  has  even  proposed  a  ball  after  the 
play,  and  it  presents  itself  to  no  one  (Mrs.  Perch  in- 
cluded) in  the  light  of  an  impossibility.  Words  have 
arisen  between  the  house-maid  and  Mr.  Towlinson  ;  she, 
on  the  authority  of  an  old  saw,  asserting  marriages  to 
be  made  in  heaven :  he,  affecting  to  trace  the  manufac- 
ture elsewhere ;  he,  supposing  that  she  says  so,  because 
Bhe  thinks  of  being  married  her  own  self:  she,  saying, 
Lord  forbid,  at  any  rate,  that  she  should  ever  marry 
him.  To  calm  these  flying  taunts,  the  silver-headed 
butler  rises  to  propose  the  health  of  Mr.  Towlinson, 
whom  to  know  is  to  esteem,  and  to  esteem  is  to  wish 
well  settled  in  hfe  with  the  object  of  his  choice,  where- 
ever  (here  the  silver-headed  butler  eyes  the  house-maid) 
she  may  be.  Mr.  TowHnson  returns  thanks  in  a  speech 
replete  with  feeling,  of  which  the  peroration  turns  on 
foreigners,  regarding  whom  he  says  they  may  find  favor, 
sometimes  with  weak  and  inconstant  intellects  that  can 
be  led  away  by  hair,  but  all  he  hopes,  is,  he  may  never 
hear  of  no  foreigner  never  boning  nothing  out  of  no  trav- 
elling chariot.  The  eye  of  Mr.  Towlinson  is  so  severe 
and  so  expressive  here,  that  the  house-maid  is  turning- 
hysterical,  when  she  and  all  the  rest,  roused  by  the  in- 
telligence that  the  Bride  is  going  away,  hurry  up-staira 
to  witness  her  departure. 

The  chariot  is  at  the  door ;  the  Bride  is  descending  to 
ihe  hall,  where  Mr.  Dombey  waits  for  her.     Florence  if 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  2# 

ready  on  the  staircase  to  depart  too ;  and  Miss  Nippei, 
who  has  held  a  middle  state  between  the  parlor  and  the 
kitchen,  is  prepared  to  accompany  her.  As  Edith  ap- 
pears, Florence  hastens  towards  her,  to  bid  her  farewell 

Is  Edith  cold,  that  she  should  tremble !  Is  there  any- 
thing unnatural  or  unwholesome  in  the  touch  of  Florence, 
that  the  beautiful  form  recedes  and  contracts,  as  if  it 
could  not  bear  it !  Is  there  so  much  hurry  in  this  going 
away,  that  Edith,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  sweeps  on, 
and  is  gone  ! 

IMrs.  Skewton,  overpowered  by  her  feelings  as  a 
mother,  sinks  on  her  sofa  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude, 
when  the  clatter  of  the  chariot  wheels  is  lost,  and  sheds 
several  tears.  The  major,  coming  with  the  rest  of  the 
company  from  table,  endeavors  to  comfort  her ;  but  she 
will  not  be  comforted  on  any  terms,  and  so  the  major 
takes  his  leave.  Cousin  Feenix  takes  his  leave,  and 
Mr.  Carker  takes  his  leave.  The  guests  all  go  away. 
Cleopatra,  left  alone,  feels  a  little  giddy  from  her  strong 
emotion,  and  falls  asleep. 

Giddiness  prevails  below  stairs  too.  The  very  tall 
young  man  whose  excitement  came  on  so  soon,  appears 
to  have  his  head  glued  to  the  table  in  the  pantry,  and 
cannot  be  detached  from  it.  A  violent  revulsion  has 
taken  place  in  the  spirits  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who  is  low  on 
account  of  Mr.  Perch  ;  and  tells  cook  that  she  fears  he 
is  net  so  much  attached  to  his  home,  as  he  used  to  be, 
when  they  were  only  nine  in  family.  Mr.  TowHnson 
has  a  singing  in  his  ears  and  a  large  wheel  going  round 
and  round  inside  his  head.  The  house-maid  wishes  it 
wasn't  wicked  to  wish  that  one  was  dead. 

There  is  a  general  delusion  likewise,  in  these  lower 
regions,  on  the  subject  of  time     everybody  vonceiving 


28  UOMBET  AND  SOW. 

that  it  ouglit  to  be,  at  the  earliest,  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
whereas  it  is  not  yet  three  in  the  afternoon.  A  shadowy 
idea  of  wickedness  committed,  haunts  every  individual 
in  the  party ;  and  each  one  secretly  thinks  the  otlier  a 
companion  in  guilt,  whom  it  would  be  agreeable  to  avoid. 
No  man  or  woman  has  the  hardihood  to  hint  at  the  pro- 
jected visit  to  the  play.  Any  one  reviving  the  notion 
of  the  ball,  would  be  scouted  as  a  malignant  idiot. 

Mrs.  Skewton  sleeps  up-stairs,  two  hours  afterwards, 
and  naps  are  not  yet  over  in  the  kitchen.  The  hatch- 
ments in  the  dining-room  look  down  on  crumbs,  dirty 
plates,  spillings  of  wine,  half-thawed  ice,  stale  di*oIored 
heel-taps,  scraps  of  lobster,  drumsticks  of  fowls,  and 
pensive  jellies,  gradually  resolving  themselves  into  a 
lukewarm  gummy  soup.  The  marriage  is,  by  this  time, 
almost  as  denuded  of  its  show  and  garnish  as  tlie  break- 
fast. Mr.  Dombey's  servants  moralize  so  much  about 
it,  and  are  so  repentant  over  their  early  tea,  at  home, 
that  by  eigiit  o'clock  or  so,  they  settle  down  into  con- 
firmed seriousness ;  and  Mr.  Perch,  arriving  at  that  time 
from  the  city,  fresh  and  jocular,  with  a  white  waistcoat 
and  a  comic  song,  ready  to  spend  the  evening,  and  pre- 
pared for  any  amount  of  dissipation,  is  amazed  to  find 
himsel;'  coldly  received,  and  Mrs.  Perch  but  pooi-ly,  and 
to  have  the  pleasing  duty  of  escorting  that  lady  home  by 
the  next  omnibus. 

Night  closes  in.  Florence  having  rambled  through 
vIic  handsome  house,  from  room  to  room,  seeks  her  own 
chamber,  where  the  care  of  Edith  has  suriounded  her 
with  luxuries  and  comforts ;  and  divesting  herself  of  her 
handsome  dress,  puts  on  her  old  simple  mourning  lor 
iear  Paul,  and  sits  down  to  read,  with  Diogenes  winking 
und  blinking  on  the  ground  beside  her.     But  Florence 


t)OMBEY  AND  SON.  ^9 

cannot  read  to-night.  The  house  seems  strange  &nd 
uew,  and  there  are  loud  echoes  in  it.  There  is  a  shadow 
on  her  heart :  she  knows  not  why  or  what :  but  it  is 
heavy.  Florence  shuts  her  book,  and  gruff  Diogenes, 
who  takes  that  for  a  signal,  puts  his  paws  upon  her  lap, 
and  rubs  his  ears  against  her  caressing  hands.  But 
Florence  cannot  see  him  plainly,  in  a  little  time,  for 
there  is  a  mist  between  her  eyes  and  him,  and  her  dead 
brother  and  dead  mother,  shine  in  it  like  angels.  Wal- 
ter, too,  poor  wandering  shipwrecked  boy,  oh,  where  is 
he! 

The  major  don't  know ;  that's  for  certain  ;  and  don't 
care.  The  major,  having  choked  and  slumbered,  all  the 
afternoon,  has  taken  a  late  dinner  at  his  club,  and  now 
sits  over  his  pint  of  wine,  driving  a  modest  young  man, 
with  a  fresh-colcred  face,  at  the  next  table  (who  would 
give  a  handsome  sum  to  be  able  to  rise  and  go  away, 
but  cannot  do  it)  to  the  verge  of  madness,  by  anecdotes 
of  Bagstock,  sir,  at  Dombey's  wedding,  and  old  Joe's 
devilish  gentlemanly  friend,  Lord  Feenix.  While  Cousin 
Feenix,  who  ought  to  be  at  Long's,  and  in  bed,  finds  him- 
self, instead,  at  a  ganaing-table,  where  his  wilful  legs  have 
taken  him,  perhaps,  in  his  own  despite. 

Night,  like  a  giant,  fills  the  church,  from  pavement  to 
roof,  and  holds  dominion  through  the  silent  houi"S.  Pule 
dawn  again  comes  peeping  througli  the  windows ;  and, 
giving  place  to  day,  sees  night  withdraw  into  the  vaults, 
and  follows  it,  and  drives  it  out,  and  hides  among  the  dead. 
The  timid  mice  again  cower  close  together,  when  tht 
great  door  clashes,  and  Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff,  tread- 
ing the  circle  of  their  daily  lives,  unbroken  as  a  marriage 
ring,  come  in.  Again  the  cocked-hat  and  the  mortified 
bonnet  stand  in  the  background  at  the  marriage  hour  j 


30  DOHBET  AND  SON. 

vid  cigaiD  this  man  taketh  this  woman,  and  this  .voniau 
taketh  this  man,  on  the  solemn  terms : 

*•  To  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for 
belter  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and 
in  health,  to  love  and  to  cherish,  antil  death  do  them 
part" 

The  very  words  that  Mr.  Carker  rides  into  town  re- 
peating, with  his  mouUi  stretched  to  the  utmost,  as  he 
picks  his  dainty  way. 


DOMBEY   AM)  80N.  U 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

TEB    WOODEN   MIDSHIPMAN   OOE8   TO   PIKCES. 

Honest  Captain  Cuttle,  as  the  weeks  flew  over  liita 
in  his  fortified  retreat,  by  no  means  abated  any  of  hi.i 
prudent  provisions  against  surprise,  because  of  the  non- 
appearance of  the  enemy.  The  captain  argued  that  his 
present  security  was  too  profound  and  wonderful  to  en- 
dure much  longer ;  he  knew  that  when  the  wind  stood 
in  a  fair  quarter,  the  weathercock  was  seldom  nailed 
there  ;  and  he  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the  deter- 
mined and  dauntless  character  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to 
doubt  that  that  heroic  woman  had  devoted  herself  to  the 
task  of  his  discovery  and  capture.  Trembling  beneath 
the  weight  of  these  reasons.  Captain  Cuttle  lived  a  very 
close  and  retired  life  ;  seldom  stirring  abroad  until  after 
dark;  venturing  even  then  only  into  the  obscurest  streets; 
never  going  forth  at  all  on  Sundays ;  and  both  within 
and  without  the  walls  of  his  retreat,  avoiding  bonnets, 
as  if  they  were  worn  by  raging  lions. 

The  captain  never  dreamed  that  in  the  event  of  his  being 
pounced  upon  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  his  walks,  it  would 
be  possible  to  offer  resistance.  He  felt  that  it  cDuld  not 
be  done.  He  saw  himself,  in  his  mind's  eye,  put  meekly 
\n  a  hackney-coach,  and  carried  off  to  his  old  lodging;*. 
He  foresaw  that,  once  immured  there,  he  was  a  lost  man; 
ais  hat  gone  ;  Mrs.  MacStinger  watchful  of  hira  day  and 


32  DOMBEY  AND  SON, 

night ;  reproaches  heaped  upon  his  head,  b  fore  the  in- 
fant family ;  himself  the  guilty  object  of  suspicion  and 
distrust :  an  ogre  in  the  children's  eyes,  and  in  theil 
mother's  a  detected  traitor. 

A  violent  perspiration,  and  a  lowneas  of  ppirits  always 
came  over  the  captain  as  this  gloomy  picture  urosented 
itself  to  his  imagination.  It  generally  did  so  previous 
to  his  stealing  out  of  doors  at  night  for  air  and  exercise. 
Sensible  of  the  risk  he  ran,  the  captain  took  leave  of  Rob, 
at  those  times  with  the  solemnity  which  became  a  man 
who  might  never  return  :  exhorting  him  in  the  event  of 
his  (the  captain's)  being  lost  sight  of,  for  a  time,  to  tread 
in  the  paths  of  virtue,  and  keep  the  brazen  instruments 
well  polished. 

But  not  to  throw  away  a  chance :  and  to  secure  to 
himself  a  means,  in  case  of  the  worst,  of  holding  com- 
munication with  the  external  world;  Captain  Cuttle 
poon  conceived  the  happy  idea  of  teaching  Rob  the 
Grinder  some  secret  signal,  by  which  that  adherent 
might  make  his  presence  and  fidelity  known  to  his  com- 
mander, in  the  hour  of  adversity.  After  much  cogita- 
tion, the  captain  decided  in  favor  of  instructing  him  to 
whistle  the  marine  melody,  "  Oh  cheerily,  cheerily ! " 
and  Rob  the  Grinder  attaining  a  point  as  near  perfection 
in  that  accomjilishment  as  a  landsman  could  hope  to 
reach,  the  captain  impressed  these  mysterious  instnic- 
lions  on  his  mind: 

"  Now,  ray  lad,  stand  by  !     If  ever  I'm  took  "  — 

"  Took,  captain ! "  interposed  Rob,  with  his  ronnd 
eyes  wide  open. 

**  Ah  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle  darkly,  •*  if  ever  I  goes 
Bway,  meaning  to  come  back  to  supper,  and  don't  come 
(vithin  hail  again  twenty-four  hours  arter  my  loss,  go  you 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  83 

to  Brig-place  and  whistle  that  'ere  tune  near  my  old 
moorings  —  not  as  if  you  was  a-meaning  of  it,  you  un- 
Jerstand,  but  as  if  you'd  drifted  there,  promiscuous.  If 
I  answer  in  tliat  tune,  you  sheer  off,  my  lad,  and  come 
back  fbur-and-twenty  hours  arterwards;  if  I  answer  in 
another  tune,  do  you  stand  off  and  on,  and  wait  till  1 
llirow  out  further  signals.  Do  you  understand  them 
orders,  now  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  stand  off  and  on  of,  captain  ?  "  in- 
quired Rob.     "  Tlie  horse-road  ?  " 

"  Here's  a  smart  lad  for  you !  "  cried  the  captain,  ey- 
ing him  sternly,  "as  don't  know  his  own  native  alphabet! 
Go  away  a  bit  and  come  back  again  alternate  —  d'ye 
understand  that  ?  " 

"Yes,  captain,"  said  Rob. 

"  Very  good,  my  lad,  then,"  said  the  captain,  relent- 
ing.    "  Do  it !  " 

That  he  might  do  it  the  better,  Captain  Cuttle  some- 
times condescended,  of  an  evening,  after  the  shop  waa 
shut,  to  rehearse  the  scene :  retiring  into  the  parlor  for 
the  purpose,  as  into  the  lodgings  of  a  supposititious  Mac- 
Stinger,  and  carefully  observing  the  behavior  of  hia 
ally,  from  the  hole  of  espial  he  had  cut  in  the  wall. 
Rob  the  Grinder  discharged  himself  of  his  duty  with  so 
inuch  exactness  and  judgment,  when  thus  put  to  the 
proof,  that  the  captain  presented  him,  at  divers  times, 
with  seven  sixpences,  in  token  of  satisfaction  ;  and  grad- 
ually fell  stealing  over  his  spirit  the  resignation  of  a  man 
who  had  made  provision  for  the  worst,  and  taken  every 
reasonable  precaution  against  an  unrelenting  fate. 

Nevertheless,  the  captain  did  not  tempt  ill-fortune,  bj? 
being  a  whit  more  venturesome  than  before.  Though 
he  considered  it  a  point  of  good-breoding  in  himself,  as  a 
voh.  in.  3 


34  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

t 

general  friend  of  the  family,  to  attend  Mr.  Dombey*i 

wedding  (of  which  he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Perch),  and 
to  show  that  gentleman  a  pleasant  and  approving  coun- 
tenance from  the  gallery,  he  had  repaired  to  the  church 
in  a  hackney  cabriolet  with  both  windows  up;  and  might 
have  scrupled  even  to  make  that  venture,  in  his  dread 
of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  but  that  the  lady's  attendance  on 
the  ministry  of  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  rendered  it 
peculiarly  unlikely  that  she  would  be  found  in  commun- 
ion with  the  Establishment. 

The  captain  got  safe  home  again,  and  fell  into  the  or- 
dinary routine  of  his  new  life,  without  encountering  any 
more  direct  alarm  from  the  enemy,  than  was  suggested 
to  him  by  the  daily  bonnets  in  the  street.  But  other 
subjects  began  to  lie  heavier  on  the  captain's  mind. 
Walter's  ship  was  still  unheard  of.  No  news  came  of 
old  Sol  Gills.  Florence  did  not  even  know  of  the  old 
man's  disappearance,  and  Captain  Cuttle  had  not  the 
heart  to  tell  her.  Indeed  the  captain,  as  his  own  hopes 
of  the  generous,  handsome,  gallant-hearted  youth,  whom 
he  had  loved,  according  to  his  rough  manner,  from  a 
child,  began  to  fade,  and  faded  more  and  more  from  day 
to  day,  shrunk  with  instinctive  pain  from  the  thought 
of  exchanging  a  word  with  Florence?  If  he  had  had 
good  news  to  carry  to  her,  the  honest  captain  would 
have  braved  the  newly  decorated  house  and  splendid 
furniture  —  though  these  connected  with  the  lady  he  had 
seen  at  church,  were  awful  to  him  —  and  made  his  way 
\nto  her  presence.  With  a  dark  horizon  gathering  around 
their  common  hopes,  however,  that  darkened  every  hour, 
the  captain  almost  felt  as  if  he  were  a  new  misfortune 
and  affliction  to  her ;  and  was  scarcely  less  afraid  of  a 
visit  from  Florence,  than  from  Mrs.  MacStinger  hersejf 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  35 

If  was  a  chill  dark  autumn  evening,  and  Captain  Cu^ 
tie  had  onlered  a  fire  to  be  kindled  in  the  little  back- 
parlor,  now  more  than  ever  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship. 
The  rain  fell  fast,  and  the  wind  blew  hard  ;  and  straying 
out  on  the  house-top  by  that  stormy  bedroom  of  his  old 
friend,  to  take  an  observation  of  the  weather,  the  cap- 
tain's heart  died  within  him,  when  he  saw  how  wild  and 
desolate  it  was.  Not  that  he  associated  the  weather  of 
that  time  with  poor  Walter's  destiny,  or  doubted  that  if 
Providence  had  doomed  him  to  be  lost  and  shipwrecked, 
it  was  over,  long  ago ;  but  that  beneath  an  outward  in- 
fluence, quite  distinct  from  the  subject-matter  of  hia 
thoughts,  the  captain's  spirits  sank,  and  his  hopes  turned 
pale,  as  those  of  wiser  men  had  often  done  before  him, 
and  will  often  do  again. 

Ciiptain  Cuttle,  addressing  his  face  to  the  sharp  wind 
and  slanting  rain,  looked  up  at  the  heavy  scud  that  was 
flying  fast  over  the  wilderness  of  house-tops,  and  looked 
for  something  cheery  there  in  vain.  The  prospect  near 
at  hand  was  no  better.  In  sundry  tea-chests,  and  other 
rough  boxes  at  his  feet,  the  pigeons  of  Rob  the  Grinder 
were  cooing  like  so  many  dismal  breezes  getting  up. 
A  crazy  weathercock  of  a  midshipman,  with  a  telescope 
at  his  eye,  once  visible  from  the  street,  but  long  bricked 
out,  creaked  and  complained  upon  his  rusty  pivot  as  the 
Bhrill  blast  spun  him  round  and  round,  and  sported  with 
him  cruelly.  Upon  the  captain's  coarse  blue  vest  the 
cold  rain-drops  started  like  steel  beads ;  and  he  could 
hardly  maintain  himself  aslant  against  the  stiff  nor'wes- 
ter  that  came  pressing  against  him,  importunate  to  topple 
him  over  the  parapet,  and  throw  him  on  the  pavement 
below.  If  there  were  any  Hope  alive  that  evening,  thfl 
captain  thought,  as  he  held  his  hat  on,  it  certainly  kep' 


36  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

house,  and  wasn't  out  of  doors ;  so  the  captain,  shak- 
ing his  head  in  a  despondent  manner,  went  in  to  look 
for  it. 

Ca[)tain  Cuttle  descended  slowly  to  the  little  back 
parlor,  and,  seated  in  his  accustomed  chair,  looked  for 
it  in  the  fire ;  but  it  was  not  there,  though  the  fire  was 
bright.  He  took  out  his  tobacco-box  and  pipe,  and 
composing  himself  to  smoke,  looked  for  it  in  the  red 
glow  from  the  bowl,  and  in  the  wreaths  of  vapor  that 
curled  upward  from  his  lips  ;  but  there  was  not  so  much 
as  an  atom  of  the  rust  of  Hope's  anchor  in  either.  He 
tried  a  glass  of  grog ;  but  melancholy  truth  was  at  the 
bottom  of  that  well,  and  he  couldn't  finish  it.  He  made 
a  turn  or  two  in  the  shop,  and  looked  for  Hope  among 
the  instruments  ;  but  they  obstinately  worked  out  reckon- 
ings for  the  missing  ship,  in  spite  of  any  opposition  he 
could  offer,  that  ended  at  the  bottom  of  the  lone  sea. 

The  wind  still  rushing,  and  the  rain  still  pattering, 
against  the  closed  shutters,  the  captain  brought  to  before 
the  wooden  Midshipman  upon  the  counter,  and  thought, 
as  he  dried  the  little  officer's  uniform  with  his  sleeve, 
how  many  years  the  Midshipman  had  seen,  during  which 
few  changes  —  hardly  any  —  had  transpired  among  his 
ship's  company ;  how  the  changes  had  come  all  together 
one  day,  as  it  might  be ;  and  of  what  a  sweeping  kind 
they  were.  Here  was  the  little  society  of  the  back  par- 
lor broken  up,  and  scattered  far  and  wide.  Here  was 
no  audience  for  Lovely  Peg,  even  if  there  had  been 
anybody  to  sing  it,  which  there  was  not ;  for  the  captain 
was  as  morally  certain  that  nobody  but  he  could  execute 
that  ballad,  as  he  was  that  he  had  not  the  spirit,  under 
existing  circumstances,  to  attempt  it.  There  was  no 
Sright  face  of  "  Wal'r  "  in  the  house ;  —  here  the  captair 


DOMUEY  AND  SON.  37 

transferred  his  sleeve  for  a  moment  from  the  midship- 
ruan'ri  uniform  to  his  own  cheek;  —  the  famihar  wig  and 
buttons  of  Sol  Gills  were  a  vision  of  the  past ;  Rich* 
ard  "Whittington  was  knocked  on  the  head ;  and  every 
plan  and  project,  in  connection  with  the  Midshipman, 
lay  drifting,  without  mast  or  rudder,  on  the  waste  of 
waters. 

As  the  captain,  with  a  dejected  face,  stood  revolving 
these  thoughts,  and  polishing  the  Midshipman,  partly  Id 
the  tendex'ness  of  old  acquaintance,  and  partly  in  the 
absence  of  his  mind,  a  knocking  at  the  shop-door  com- 
municated a  friglitful  start  to  the  frame  of  Rob  the 
Grinder,  seated  on  the  counter,  whose  large  eyes  had 
been  intently  fixed  on  the  captain's  face,  and  who  had 
been  debating  within  himself,  for  the  five  hundredth 
time,  whether  the  captain  could  have  done  a  murder, 
that  he  had  such  an  evil  conscience,  and  was  always 
running  away. 

"  What's  that  1 "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  softly. 

"  Somebody's  knuckles,  captain,"  answered  Rob  the 
Grinder. 

The  captain,  with  an  abashed  and  guilty  air,  immedi- 
ately sneaked  on  tiptoe  to  the  little  parlor  and  locked 
himself  in.  Rob,  opening  tlie  door,  would  have  par- 
leyed with  the  visitor  on  the  threshold  if  the  visitor  had 
come  in  female  guise ;  but  the  figure  being  of  the  male 
sex,  and  Rob's  orders  only  applying  to  women,  Rob 
held  the  door  open  and  allowed  it  to  enter:  which  it 
did  very  quickly,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  driving  rain. 

"A  job  for  Burgess  and  Co.  at  any  rate,"  said  (ho 
visitor  looking  ovei-  kis  slv^ulder  compassionately  at 
Ws  own  legs,  which  were  very  wet  and  covered  will 
iplast-^.     "  Oil,  bow-de-do,  Mr.  Gills  ?  " 


88  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  salutfition,  was  addressed  to  the  captain,  now 
emerging  fronv  the  back-parlor  with  a  most  transpar- 
ent and  utterly  futile  affectation  of  coming  out  by  ac- 
cident. 

"  Thankee,"  the  gentleman  went  on  to  say  in  the 
same  breath  ;  "  I'm  very  well  indeed,  myself,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you.     My  name  is  Toots,  —  Mister  Toots." 

The  captain  remembered  to  have  seen  this  yonng 
gentleman  at  the  wedding,  and  made  him  a  bow.  Mr 
Toots  replied  with  a  chuckle  ;  and  being  embarrassed. 
as  he  generally  was,  breathed  hard,  shook  hands  with 
the  captain  for  a  long  time,  and  then  falling  on  Rob 
the  Grinder,  in  the  absence  of  any  other  resource, 
Eliook  hands  with  him  in  a  most  affectionate  and  cor- 
dial manner. 

"  I  say ;  I  should  like  to  speak  a  word  to  you,  Mr. 
Gills,  if  you  please,"  said  Toots  at  length,  with  surpris- 
ing presence  of  mind.  "  I  say !  Miss  D.  0.  M.  you 
know  ! " 

The  captain,  with  responsive  gravity  and  mystery, 
immediately  waved  his  hook  towards  the  little  parlor, 
whither  Mr.  Toots  followed  him. 

"  Oh !  I  beg  your  pardon  though,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
looking  up  in  the  captain's  face,  as  he  sat  down  in  a 
chair  by  the  fire,  which  the  captain  placed  for  him ; 
"  you  don't  happen  to  know  the  Chicken  at  aH ;  do  you 
Mr.  Gills?" 

"  The  Chicken  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

«  The  (Jame  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  captain  shaking  his  head,  Mr.  Tocts  explained 
that  the  man  alluded  to  was  the  celebrated  public  char- 
acter who  had  covered  himself  and  his  country  with 
glor^  m  his  contest   with  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One  . 


i 


OOMBET  AND  SON.  3) 

but  this  piece  of  information  did  not  appear  to  enlighie^ 
the  captain  \ery  much. 

"Because  he's  outside:  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Toot&« 
"  But  it's  of  no  consequence  ;  he  won't  get  very  wet 
perhaps." 

"I  can  pass  the  word  for  him  in  a  moment,"  said  the 
captain. 

"  "Well,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  let  him  sii 
m  the  shop  with  your  young  man,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots, 
"I  should  be  glad  ;  because  you  know,  he's  easily  of- 
fended, and  the  damp's  rather  bad  for  his  stamina,  i'll 
call  him  in,  Mr.  Gills." 

With  that,  Mr.  Toots,  repairing  to  the  shop-door,  sent 
a  peculiar  whistle  into  the  night,  which  produced  a 
stoical  gentleman  in  a  shaggy  white  great-coat  and  a 
flat-brimmed  hat,  with  very  short  hair,  a  broken  nose, 
and  a  considerable  tract  of  bare  and  sterile  country  be- 
hind each  ear. 

"  Sit  down.  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  compliant  Chicken  spat  out  some  small  pieces  of 
straw  on  which  he  was  regaling  himself,  and  took  in  a 
fresh  supply  from  a  reserve  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

"  There  a'n't  no  drain  of  nothing  short  handy,  is 
there  ?  "  said  the  Chicken,  generally.  "  This  here  sluic- 
ing night  is  hard  lines  to  a  man  as  lives  on  his  con- 
dition." 

Captain  Cuttle  proffered  a  glass  of  rum,  which  the 
Chicken,  throwing  back  his  head,  emptied  into  himself, 
as  into  a  cask,  after  proposing  the  brief  sentiment, "  Tow- 
ards us!"  Mr.  Toots  and  the  captain  returning  then 
to  th3  parlor,  and  taking  their  seats  before  the  fire,  Mr 
Toots  began  : 

«  Mr.  Gills  "  — 


40  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

**  Awast ! "  said  the  captain.     "  My  name's  Cuttle." 

Mr.  Toots  looked  greatly  disconcerted,  while  the  cap- 
tain proceeded  gi'avely : 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle  is  my  name,  and  England  is  my  na- 
tion, this  here  is  ray  dwelling-place,  and  blessetl  be 
creation  —  Job,"  said  the  captain,  as  an  index  to  his 
authority. 

"  Oh  !  I  couldn't  see  Mr.  Gills,  could  I  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Toots ;  "  because  "  — 

"  If  you  could  see  Sol  Gills,  young  gen'l'm'n,"  said 
the  captain,  impressively,  and  laying  liis  heavy  hand  on 
Mr.  Toots's  knee,  "  old  Sol,  mind  you  —  with  your  own 
eyes  —  as  you  sit  there  —  you'd  be  welcomer  to  me, 
than  a  wind  astern,  to  a  ship  becalmed.  But  you  can't 
see  Sol  Gills.  And  why  can't  you  see  Sol  Gills  ?  "  said 
the  captain,  apprised  by  the  face  of  Mr.  Toots  that  he 
•was  making  a  profound  impression  on  that  gentleman's 
mind.     "  Because  he's  inwisible." 

Mr.  Toots  in  his  agitation  was  going  to  reply  that  it 
was  of  Ao  consequence  at  all.  But  he  corrected  him- 
self, and  said,  "  Lor  bless  me  !  " 

"  That  there  man,"  said  the  captain,  "  has  left  me  in 
charge  here  by  a  piece  of  writing,  but  though  he  was 
a'most  as  good  as  my  sworn  brother,  I  know  no  more 
where  he's  gone,  or  why  he's  gone ;  if  so  be  to  seek 
his  nevy,  or  if  so  be  along  of  being  not  quite  settled  in 
his  mind ;  than  you  do.  One  morning  at  daybreak,  he 
went  over  the  side,"  said  the  captain,  "  without  a  splash, 
without  a  ripple.  I  have  looked  for  that  man  high  and 
low,  and  never  set  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  nothing  else,  upon 
tiim,  from  that  hour." 

"  But,  good  gracious.  Miss  Dombey  don't  know  ''  — 
Mr.  Toots  began. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  11 

"  Why,  I  ask  you,  as  a  feeling  heart,**  said  the  cap- 
tain, dropping  his  voice,  "  why  should  she  know  ?  why 
ghoukl  she  be  made  to  know,  until  such  time  as  there 
warn't  any  help  for  it?  She  took  to  old  Sol  Gills, 
did  that  sweet  creetur,  with  a  kindness,  with  a  affabil- 
ity, with  a  —  what's  tlie  good  of  saying  so?  you  know 
her." 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  con- 
scious blush  that  suffused  his  whole  countenance. 

"  And  you  come  here  from  her  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  I  should  tliink  so,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Then  ail  I  need  observe  is,"  said  the  captain,  "  thai 
you  know  a  angel,  and  are  chartered  by  a  angel." 

Mr.  Toots  instantly  seized  the  captain's  hand,  and  re- 
quested the  favor  of  his  friendship. 

*'  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  earnest- 
ly, "  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you'd  im- 
prove my  acquaintance.  I  should  like  to  know  you, 
captain,  very  much.  I  really  am  in  want  of  a  friend,  I 
Am.  Little  Dombey  was  my  friend  at  old  Blimber's, 
and  would  have  been  now,  if  he'd  have  lived.  The 
Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a  forlorn  whisper,  "  is  very 
well  —  admirable  in  his  way  —  the  sharpest  man  per- 
haps in  the  world  ;  there's  not  a  move  he  isn't  up  to^ 
everybody  says  so  —  but  I  don't  know  —  he's  not  every* 
thing.  So  she  is  an  angel,  captain.  If  there  is  an 
angel  anywhere,  it's  Miss  Dombey.  That's  what  I've 
always  said.  Really  though,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
'*  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you'd  culti- 
»a(e  my  acquaintance." 

Captain  Cuttle  received  this  proposal  in  a  polite  man- 
ner, but  still  without  committing  himself  to  its  accept- 
ance ;  merely  observing,  "  Ay,  ay,  my  lad.     We   shal 


42  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Bee,  we  shall  see  ; "  and  reminding  Mr.  Toots  of  his  im- 
mediate mission,  by  inquiring  to  what  he  was  indebted 
for  the  honor  of  that  visit. 

"Why  the  fact  is,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  its  the 
young  woman  I  come  from.  Not  JSIiss  Dombey  — 
Susan  you  know." 

The  captain  nodded  his  head  once,  with  a  grave  ex- 
pression of  face,  indicative  of  his  regarding  that  young 
woman  with  serious  respect. 

**  And  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happens,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
"  You  know,  I  go  and  call  sometimes,  on  Miss  Dombey. 
I  don't  go  there  on  purpose,  you  know,  but  I  happen  to 
be  in  the  neighborhood  very  often ;  and  when  I  find 
myself  there,  why —  why  I  call." 

"  Nat'rally,"  observed  the  captain. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  called  this  afternoon. 
Upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  don't  think  it's  possible  to 
form  an  idea  of  the  angel  Miss  Dombey  was  this  after- 
noon." 

The  captain  answered  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  imply- 
ing that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  some  people,  but  was 
quite  so,  to  him. 

"  As  I  was  coming  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  the  young 
woman,  in  the  most  unexpected  manner,  took  me  into 
the  pantry." 

The  captain  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to  object  to  this 
proceeding ;  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  looked  at  Mr. 
Toots  with  a  distrustful,  if  not  threatening  visage. 

"  Where  she  brought  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  this  news- 
paper.    She  told    me  that  she  had   kept  it  from  Misa 
Dombey  all  day,  on  account  of  something  that  was  in  it, 
about  somebody  tliat   she   and  Dombey  used  to  know 
and  then  she  read  the  passage  to  me.    Very  well.    Then 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  #J» 

she   said  —  wait    a   minute  ;   what   was    it,  she    said 

though  !  " 

Mr.  Toots,  endeavoring  to  concentrate  his  mental  pow- 
ers on  this  question,  unintentionally  fixed  the  captain's 
eye,  and  was  so  much  discomposed  by  its  stem  expre»« 
aion,  that  his  difficulty  in  resuming  the  thread  of  his 
subject  was  enhanced  to  a  painful  extent. 

**  Oh !  "  said  Mr.  Toots  after  long  consideration.  "  Oh, 
ah !  Yes  !  She  said  that  she  hoped  there  was  a  bare 
possibility  that  it  mightn't  be  true ;  and  that  as  she 
couldn't  very  well  come  out  herself,  without  surprising 
Miss  Dombey,  would  I  go  down  to  Mr.  Solomon  Gills 
the  Instrument-maker's  in  this  street,  who  was  the 
party's  uncle,  and  ask  whether  he  believed  it  was  true, 
or  had  heard  anything  else  in  the  city.  She  said,  if  he 
couldn't  speak  to  me,  no  doubt  Captain  Cuttle  could. 
By  the  by ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  as  the  discovery  flashed 
upon  him,  "you,  you  know  !" 

The  captain  glanced  at  the  newspaper  in  Mr.  Toots's 
hand,  and  breathed  short  and  hurriedly. 

"  Well,"  pursued  Mr.  Toots,  "  the  reason  why  Fm 
rather  late  is,  because  I  went  up  as  far  as  Finchley  first, 
to  get  some  uncommonly  fine  chickweed  that  grows 
there,  for  Miss  Dombey's  bird.  But  I  came  on  here, 
directly  afterwards.    You've  seen  the  paper,  I  suppose  ?" 

The  captain,  who  had  become  c?  utious  of  reading  the 
news,  lest  he  should  find  himself  advertised  at  full 
length  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  shook  his  head. 

"  Shall  I  read  the  passage  to  you  ? "  inquired  Mr. 
Toots. 

The  captain  making  a  sign  in  the  affirmative,  Mr. 
Foots  read  as  follows,  from  the  Shipping  Intelligence : 

"  ♦  Southampton.    The  barque  Defianc*;,  Henry  James, 


44  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Commander,  arrived  in  this  port  to-day,  with  a  cargo  of 
sugar,  coffee,  and  rum,  reports  that  being  becalmed  <mi 
the  sixth  day  of  her  passage  home  from  Jamaica,  in  *  — 
in  such  and  such  a  latitude,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
after  making  a  feeble  dash  at  the  figures,  and  tumbling 
over  them. 

"  Ay  !  "  cried  the  captain,  striking  his  clinched  hand 
on  the  table.     "  Heave  ahead,  my  lad  ! " 

"  —  latitude,"  repeated  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  startled 
glance  at  the  captain,  "and  longitude  so-and-so, — '  the 
lookout  observed,  half  an  hour  before  sunset,  some  frag- 
ments of  a  wreck,  drifting  at  about  the  distance  of  a 
mile.  The  weather  being  clear,  and  the  barque  making 
no  way,  a  boat  was  hoisted  out,  with  orders  to  inspect 
the  same,  when  they  were  found  to  consist  of  sundry 
large  spars,  and  a  part  of  the  main  rigging  of  an  English 
brig,  of  about  five  hundred  tons  burden,  together  with  a 
portion  of  the  stern  on  which  the  words  and  letters 
"  Son  and  H — "  were  yet  plainly  legible.  No  vestige 
of  any  dead  body  was  to  be  seen  upon  the  floating  frag- 
ments. Log  of  the  Defiance  states,  that  a  breeze 
springing  up  in  the  night,  the  wreck  was  seen  no  more. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  all  surmises  as  to  the  fate  of 
the  missing  vessel,  the  Son  and  Heir,  port  of  London, 
bound  for  Barbadoes,  are  now  set  at  rest  forever ;  thai 
she  broke  up  in  the  last  hurricane ;  and  that  every  soul 
on  board  perished.' " 

Captain  Cuttle,  like  all  mankind,  little  knew  how 
Diuch  hope  had  survived  within  him  under  discourage- 
ment, until  he  felt  its  death-shock.  During  the  reading 
of  the  paragraph,  and  for  a  minute  or  two  afterwards, 
he  sat  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  modest  Mr.  Toots,  like 
a  man  entranced ;  then,  suddenly  rising,  and  putting  oo 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  45 

bis  glazed  bat,  which,  in  his  visitor's  hono  ,  he  had  laid 
upon  the  table,  the  captain  turned  his  back,  and  bent  his 
head  down  on  the  little  chimney-piece. 

"  Oh,  upon  my  word  and  honor,"  cried  Mr.  Toots, 
whose  tender  heart  was  moved  by  the  captain's  unex- 
pected distress,  "  this  is  a  most  wretched  sort  of  affaii 
this  world  is !  Somebody's  always  dying,  or  going  and 
doing  something  uncomfortable  in  it.  I'm  sure  I  nevei 
should  have  looked  forward  so  much,  to  coming  into  ray 
property,  if  I  had  known  this.  I  never  saw  such  a 
world.     It's  a  great  deal  worse  than  Blimber's." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  altering  his  position,  signed  to 
Mr.  Toots  not  to  mind  him  ;  and  presently  turned  round, 
wilh  his  glazed  hat  thrust  back  upon  his  ears,  and  his 
hand  composing  and  smoothing  his  brown  face. 

"  Wal'r,  my  dear  lad,"  said  the  captain,  ''  farewell  1 
Wal'r,  my  child,  my  boy,  and  man,  I  loved  you  !  He 
warn't  my  flesh  and  blood,"  said  the  captain,  looking  at 
the  fire  —  "  I  a'n't  got  none  —  but  something  of  what  a 
father  feels  when  he  loses  a  son,  I  feel  in  losing  Wal'r. 
For  why  ? "  said  the  captain.  "  Because  it  a'n't  one 
loss,  but  a  round  dozen.  Where's  that  there  young 
schoolboy  with  the  rosy  face  and  curly  hair,  that  used  to 
be  as  merry  in  this  here  parlor,  come  round  every  week, 
as  a  piece  of  music  ?  Gone  down  with  Wal'r.  Where's 
that  there  fresh  lad,  that  nothing  couldn't  tire  nor  p»it 
out,  and  that  sparkled  up  and  blushed  so,  when  we  joked 
him  about  Heart's  Delight,  that  he  was  beautiful  to  look 
Bt  ?  Gone  down  with  Wal'r.  Where's  that  there  man's 
spirit,  all  afire,  that  wouldn't  see  the  old  man  hove  down 
for  a  minute,  and  cared  nothing  for  itself?  Gone  down 
with  Wal'r.  It  a'n't  one  Wal'r.  There  wa^  a  dozen 
Wal'rs  that  I  know'd  and  loved,  all  holding  round  hi? 


46  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

neck  when  he  went  down,  and  they're  a-holding  round 
mine  now  ! " 

Mr.  Toots  sat  silent :  folding  and  refolding  the  news- 
paper as  small  as  possible  upon  his  knee. 

"  And  Sol  Gills,"  said  the  captain,  gazing  at  the  fire, 
*  poor  nevyless  old  Sol,  where  are  you  got  to  !  you  was 
left  in  charge  of  me  ;  his  last  words  was,  '  Take  care  of 
my  uncle.'  What  came  over  you,  Sol,  when  you  went 
and  gave  the  go-by  to  Ned  Cuttle  ;  and  what  am  I  to 
put  in  my  accounts  that  he's  a-looking  down  upon,  re- 
specting you  !  Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills  ! "  said  (he  captain, 
shaking  his  head  slowly,  "  catch  sight  of  that  there 
newspaper,  away  from  home,  with  no  one  as  know'd 
Wal'r  by,  to  say  a  word ;  and  broadside-to  you  broach, 
and  down  you  pitch,  head-foremost  1 " 

Drawing  a  heavy  sigh,  the  captain  turned  to  Mr. 
Toots,  and  roused  himself  to  a  sustained  consciousnesj 
of  that  gentleman's  presence. 

"  My  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "  you  must  tell  the  young 
woman  honestly  that  this  here  fatal  news  is  too  correct. 
They  don't  romance,  you  see,  on  such  pints.  It's  en- 
tered on  the  ship's  log,  and  that's  the  truest  book  as  a 
man  can  write.  To-morrow  morning,"  said  the  captain, 
"I'll  step  out  and  make  inquiries;  but  they'll  lead  to  nc 
good.  They  can't  do  it.  If  you'll  give  me  a  look-in  in 
tlie  forenoon,  you  shall  know  what  I  have  heerd ;  but 
ell  the  young  woman  from  Cap'en  Cuttle,  that  it's  over. 
Over ! "  And  the  captain,  hooking  off  his  glazed  hat, 
pulled  his  handkerchief  out  of  the  crown,  wiped  his  griz- 
zled head  despairingly,  and  tossed  the  handkerchief  m 
again,  with  the  indifference  of  deep  dejection. 

"  Oh  I  I  assure  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  **  really  1  am 
ireadfuUy  sorry.     Upon  my  word  I  am,  though  I  wa^'* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  47 

ncqminted  with  the  party.  Do  you  think  Miss  Donibey 
will  be  very  much  affected,  Captain  Gills  —  I  mean  Mr. 
Cuttle  ?  " 

"  Why,  Lord  love  you,"  returned  the  captain,  with 
something  of  compassion  for  Mr.  Toots's  innocence. 
•'When  she  warn't  no  higher  than  that,  they  wore  as 
fi>nd  of  one  another  as  two  young  doves." 

"  Were  they  though  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  ^xu  ■ 
Biderably  lengthened  face. 

"They  were  made  for  one  another,"  said  the  captain, 
mournfully  ;  "  but  what  signifies  that  now  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  cried  JMr.  Toots,  blurt- 
ing out  his  words  thi'ough  a  singular  combination  of 
awkward  chuckles  and  emotion,  "  I'm  even  more  sorry 
than  I  was  before.  You  know,  Captain  Gills,  I  —  I 
positively  adore  Miss  Dombey  ;  —  I  —  I  am  perfectly 
sore  with  loving  her;"  the  burst  with  which  this  con- 
fession forced  itself  out  of  the  unhappy  Mr.  Toots,  be- 
spoke the  vehemence  of  his  feelings ;  "but  what  would 
be  the  good  of  my  regarding  her  in  this  manner,  if  I 
wasn't  truly  sorry  for  her  feeling  pain,  whatever  was  the 
cause  of  it.  Mine  a'n't  a  selfish  affection,  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  confidence  engendered  by  hia 
having  been  a  witness  of  the  captain's  tenderness.  "  It's 
the  sort  of  thing  with  me.  Captain  Gills,  that  if  I  could 
be  run  over  —  or  —  or  trampled  upon  —  or  —  or  thrown 
off  a  very  high  place  —  or  anything  of  that  sort  —  for 
Miss  Dombey's  sake,  it  would  be  the  most  delightful 
thing  that  could  happen  to  me." 

All  this,  Mr.  Toots  said  in  a  suppressed  voice,  to  pre- 
vent its  reaching  the  jealous  ears  of  the  Chicken,  who 
objected  to  the  softer  emotions ;  which  effort  of  restraint, 
wupled  with  tin  intensity  of  his  feelings,  made  him  rod 


48  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to  the  lips  of  liis  ears,  and  caused  him  to  present  such  an 
HlTectiiig  spectacle  of  disinterested  love  to  the  eyes  of 
Captain  Cuttle,  that  the  good  captain  patted  him  con- 
solingly on  the  back,  and  bade  him  cheer  up. 

"  Tliank'ee,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  kind 
of  you,  in  the  midst  of  your  own  troubles,  to  say  sc, 
I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you.  As  I  said  before,  I 
really  want  a  friend,  and  should  be  glad  to  have  your 
acquaintance.  Although  I  am  very  well  off,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  energy,  "you  can't  think  what  a  miserable 
beast  -1  am.  The  hollow  crowd,  you  know,  when  they 
Bee  me  with  the  Chicken,  and  characters  of  distinction 
like  that,  suppose  me  to  be  happy  ;  but  I'm  wretched. 
I  suffer  for  Miss  Dombey,  Captain  Gills.  I  can't  get 
through  my  meals ;  I  have  no  pleasure  in  my  tailor ;  I 
often  cry  when  I'm  alone.  I  assure  you  it'll  be  a  satis- 
faction to  me  to  come  back  to-morrow,  or  to  come  back 
fifty  times." 

Mr.  Toots,  with  these  words,  shook  the  captain's  hand; 
and  disguising  such  traces  of  his  agitation  as  could  be 
disguised  on  so  short  a  ngtice,  before  the  Chicken's  pene- 
trating glance,  rejoined  that  eminent  gentleman  in  the 
shop.  The  Chicken,  who  was  apt  to  be  jealous  of  hia 
ascendancy,  eyed  Captain  Cuttle  with  anything  but  fa- 
vor as  he  took  leave  of  Mr.  Toots  ;  but  followed  his 
patrun  without  being  otherwise  demonstrative  of  his  ill- 
will;  leaving  the  captain  oppressed  with  sorrow;  uxd 
Rob  the  Grinder  elevated  with  joy,  on  account  of  hav 
ing  had  the  honor  of  staring  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  at 
the  conqueror  of  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One. 

Ijong  after  Rob  was  fast  asleep  in  his  bed  under  the 
counter,  the  captain  sat  looking  at  the  fire  ;  and  long 
tfter  there  was  n*.  fire  to  look  at,  the  captain  sat  gazing 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  49 

i)n  the  rusty  bars,  with  unavailing  thoughts  of  Walter 
and  old  Sol  crowding  through  his  mind.  Ketiretnc-nt  to 
Ihe  stormy  chamber  at  the  top  of  the  house  brought  no 
rest  with  it ;  and  the  captain  rose  up  in  the  morning, 
Borrowful  and  unrefreshed. 

As  soon  as  the  city  offices  were  open,  the  captain 
issued  forth  to  the  counting-house  of  Dombey  and  Son. 
But  there  was  no  opening  of  the  Midshipman's  windows 
that  morning.  Rob  the  Grinder,  by  the  captain's  orders, 
left  the  shutters  closed,  and  the  house  was  as  a  house  of 
death.  • 

It  chanced  that  Mr.  Carker  was  entering  the  office,  as 
Captain  Cuttle  arrived  at  the  door.  Receiving  the  man- 
ager's benison  gravely  and  silently,  Captain  Cuttle  made 
bold  to  accompany  him  into  his  own  room. 

"  Well,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  up 
his  usual  position  before  the  fireplace,  and  keeping  on 
his  hat,  "  this  is  a  bad  business;." 

"  You  have  received  the  news  as  was  in  print  yester 
day,  sir  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  we  have  received  it !  It 
was  accurately  stated.  The  underwriters  suffer  a  con- 
siderable loss.  We  are  very  sorry.  No  help  !  Such  is 
life  ! " 

Mr.  Carker  pared  his  nails  delicately  with  a  penknifes, 
and  smiled  at  the  captain,  who  was  standing  by  the  door 
looking  at  him. 

"  I  excessively  regret  poor  Gay,"  said  Carker,  "  juad 
Uie  crew.  I  understand  tliere  were  some  of  our  very 
'jeet  men  among  'em.  It  always  happens  so.  Many 
men  with  families  too.  A  comfort  to  reflect  that  poor 
jray  had  no  family,  Captain  Cuttle  !  " 

The  captain  stood  rubbing  his  chin,  and  looking  at  the 


50  DOilBEY  AND  SON. 

manager.     The  manager  glanced  at  the  unopened  letters 
lying  on  his  desk,  and  took  up  the  newspaper. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Captain  Cut- 
tle ?  "  he  asked,  looking  oflF  it,  with  a  smiling  and  ex- 
pressive glance  at  thu  door. 

"  I  wish  you  could  set  my  mind  at  rest,  sir,  on  som-*- 
thing  it's  uneasy  about,"  returned  the  captain. 

"  Ay  I  "  exclaimed  the  manager,  "  what's  that  ?  Come, 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  must  trouble  you  to  be  quick,  if  you 
please.     I  am  much  engaged." 

"  Itiook'ee  here,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  advancing  a 
step.  "  Afore  my  friend  Wal'r  went  on  this  here  dis- 
astrous voyage  "  — 

"  Come,  come.  Captain  Cuttle,"  interposed  the  smiling 
manager,  "don't  talk  about  disastrous  voyages  in  that 
way.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  disastrous  voyages 
here,  my  good  fellow.  You  must  have  begun  very  early 
on  your  day's  allowance,  captain,  if  you  don't  remember 
that  there  are  hazards  in  all  voyages  whether  by  sea  or 
land.  You  are  not  made  uneasy  by  the  supposition  that 
young  what's-his-name  was  lost  in  bad  weather  that  was 
got  up  against  him  in  these  offices  —  are  you  ?  Fie, 
captain  !  Sleep,  and  soda-water,  are  the  best  cures  for 
such  uneasiness  as  that." 

'*  My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  slowly  —  **  you  are 
a'most  a  lad  to  me,  and  so  I  don't  ask  your  pardon  ftr 
that  slip  of  a  word,  —  If  you  find  any  pleasure  in  this 
here  sport,  you  a'n't  the  gentleman  I  took  you  for,  and- 
if  you  a'n't  the  gentleman  I  took  you  for,  may  be  my 
mind  has  call  to  be  uneasy.  Now  this  is  what  it  is,  Mr. 
Carker.  —  Afore  that  poor  lad  went  away,  according  to 
orders,  he  told  me  that  he  wara't  a-going  away  for  his 
own  good,  or  for  promotion,  he  know'd.     It  was  my  be- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  5l 

licf  that  he  was  wrong,  and  I  told  him  so,  and  I  .'ome 
here,  your  head  govei-nor  being  absent,  to  ask  a  question 
or  two  of  you  in  a  civil  way,  for  my  own  satisfaction 
Them  questions  you  answered  —  free.  Now  it'll  ease 
my  mind  to  know,  when  all  is  over,  as  it  is,  and  when 
wliat  can't  be  cured  must  be  endoored  —  for  which,  as  d 
scholar,  you'll  overhaul  the  book  it's  in,  and  thereof  make 
a  note  —  to  know  once  more,  in  a  word,  that  I  warn't 
mistaken ;  that  I  warn't  back'ard  in  my  duty  when  I 
didn't  tell  the  old  man  what  Wal'r  told  me ;  and  that  the 
wind  was  truly  in  his  sail,  when  he  highsted  of  it  for 
Barbadoes  Harbor.  Mr.  Carker,"  said  the  captain,  in 
the  goodness  of  his  nature,  "  when  I  was  here  last,  we 
was  very  pleasant  together.  If  I  a'n't  been  altogether 
so  pleasant  myself  this  morning,  on  account  of  this  poor 
lad,  and  if  I  have  chafed  again'  any  observation  of  yours 
that  I  might  have  fended  off,  my  name  is  Ed'ard  Cuttle, 
and  I  ask  your  pardon." 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the  manager,  with  all  poa- 
«ble  politeness,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"  And  what  is  it,  sir  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  To  have  the  goodness  to  walk  off,  if  you  please," 
rejoined  the  manager,  stretching  forth  his  arm,  "  and  to 
carry  your  jargon  somewhere  else." 

Every  knob  in  the  captain's  face  turned  white  with 
astonishment  and  indignation  ;  even  the  red  rim  on  his 
forehead  faded,  like  a  rainbow  among  the  gathering 
clouds. 

"I  tell  you  what.  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  the  manager, 
shaking  his  forefinger  at  him,  and  showing  him  all  his 
teoth,  but  still  amiably  smiling,  "I  was  much  too  lenient 
with  you  when  you  came  here  before.  You  belong  to 
an  artful  and  audacious  set  of  people.     In  my  desire  to 


52  DOMBET  AKD  SON. 

Bave  young  what's-his-name  from  being  kicked  out  of 
Ihis  place,  neck  and  crop,  my  good  captain,  I  tolerated 
you  ;  but  for  ouce,  and  only  once.  Now  go,  my 
friend ! " 

The  captain  was  absolutely  rooted  to  the  ground,  and 
speechless. 

"  GrO,"  said  the  good-humored  manager,  gathering  up 
his  skirts,  and  standing  astride  upon  the  hearth-rug, 
"  like  a  sensible  fellow,  and  let  us  have  no  turning  out, 
or  any  such  violent  measures.  If  Mr.  Dombey  were 
here,  captain,  you  might  be  obliged  to  leave  in  a  more 
ignominious  manner,  possibly.     I  merely  say.  Go  !  " 

The  captain,  laying  his  ponderous  hand  upon  his  chest, 
to  assist  himself  in  fetching  a  deep  breath,  looked  at  Mr. 
Carker  from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  round  the  little 
room,  as  if  he  did  not  clearly  understand  where  he  was, 
or  in  what  company. 

"  You  are  deep.  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Carker,  with 
the  easy  and  vivacious  frankness  of  a  man  of  the  world 
who  knew  the  world  too  well  to  be  ruffled  by  any  dis- 
covery of  misdoing,  when  it  did  not  immediately  concern 
himself;  "but  you  are  not  quite  out  of  soundings,  either 
— •  neither  you  nor  your  absent  friend,  captain.  What 
have  you  done  with  your  absent  friend,  hey  ?  " 

Again  the  captain  laid  his  hand  upon  his  chest.  After 
drawing  another  deep  breath,  he  conjured  himself  to 
**  stand  by  ?  "     But  in  a  whisper. 

"  You  hatch  nice  little  plots,  and  hold  nice  little  coun- 
cils, and  make  nice  little  appointments,  and  receive  nice 
Uttle  visitors,  too,  captain,  hey  ? "  said  Carker,  bending 
ais  brows  upon  him,  without  showing  his  teeth  any  the 
less  :  "  but  it's  a  bold  measure  to  come  here  afterwards. 
Not  like  your  discretion  !     You  conspirators,  and  hidera, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Sh 

«iid  ninners-away,  should  know  better  than  that.  Will 
you  oblige  me  by  going  ?  " 

'*  My  lad,"  gasped  the  captain,  in  a  choked  and  trem- 
bling voice,  and  with  a  curious  action  going  on  in  the 
ponderous  fi^t ;  "  there's  a  many  words  I  could  wish  to 
Eay  to  you,  but  I  don't  rightly  know  where  they're 
stowed  just  at  present.  My  young  friend,  Wal'r,  waa 
drownded  only  last  night,  according  to  my  reckoning, 
and  it  puts  me  out,  you  see.  But  you  and  me  will^come 
alongside  o'  one  another  again,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain, 
holding  up  his  hook,  "  if  we  live." 

"  It  will  be  anything  but  shrewd  in  you,  my  good  fel- 
low, if  we  do,"  returned  the  manager,  with  the  same 
frankness  ;  "  for  you  may  rely,  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
upon  my  detecting  and  exposing  you.  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  a  more  moral  man  than  my  neighbors,  my  good 
captain  ;  but  the  confidence  of  this  House,  or  of  any 
member  of  this  House,  is  not  to  be  abused  and  under- 
mined while  I  have  eyes  and  ears.  Good-day ! "  said 
Mr.  Carker,  nodding  his  head. 

Captain  Cuttle,  looking  at  hira  steadily  (Mr.  Carker 
looked  full  as  steadily  at  the  captain),  went  out  of  the 
office  and  left  hira  standing  astride  before  the  fire,  as 
calm  and  pleasant  as  if  there  were  no  more  spots  upon 
his  soul  than  on  his  pure  white  linen,  and  his  smooth 
sleek  skin. 

The  captain  glanced,  in  passing  through  the  outer 
counting-house,  at  the  desk  where  he  knew  poor  Walter 
iiad  been  used  to  sit,  now  occupied  by  another  young 
boy,  with  a  face  almost  as  fresh  and  hopeful  as  his  on 
the  day  when  they  tapped  the  famous  last  bottle  but  one 
of  the  old  Madeira,  in  the  little  back-parlor.  The  asso- 
ciation of  ideas,  thus  awakened,  did  the  captain  [i  great 


54  DOJIBEY  A3S1)  SON. 

deal  of  good  ;  it  softened  him  in  the  very  height  of  hia 
anger,  and  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes. 

Arrived  at  the  wooden  Midshipman's  again,  and  sitting 
down  in  a  comer  of  the  dark  shop,  the  captain's  indigna- 
tion, strong  as  it  was,  could  make  no  head  against  hia 
grief.  Passion  seemed  not  only  to  do  wrong  and  vio* 
lence  to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  but  to  be  infected  by 
death,  and  to  droop  and  decline  beside  it.  All  the  living 
knaves  and  liars  in  the  world,  were  nothing  to  the  hen- 
esty  and  truth  of  one  dear  friend. 

Tlie  only  thing  the  honest  captain  made  out  clearly, 
in  this  state  of  mind,  besides  the  loss  of  Walter  was, 
that  with  him  almost  the  whole  world  of  Captain  Cuttle 
had  been  drowned.  If  he  reproached  himself  some- 
times, and  keenly  loo,  for  having  ever  connived  at  Wal- 
ter's innocent  deceit,  he  thought  at  least  as  often  of  the 
Mr.  Carker  whom  no  sea  could  ever  render  up  ;  and  the 
Mr.  Dombey,  whom  he  now  began  to  perceive  was  as 
far  beyond  human  recall ;  and  the  "  Heart's  Delight," 
with  whom  he  must  never  foregather  again ;  and  the 
Lovely  Peg,  that  teak-built  and  trim  ballad,  that  had 
gone  ashore  upon  a  rock,  and  split  into  mere  planks 
and  beams  of  rhyme.  The  captain  sat  in  the  dark  shop, 
thinking  of  these  things,  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  his 
own  injury;  and  looking  with  as  sad  an  eye  upon  the 
ground,  as  if  in  contemplation  of  their  actual  fragments 
as  they  floated  past  him. 

But  the  captain  wiis  not  unmindful,  for  all  that,  of  such 
decent  and  respectful  observances  in  memory  of  poor 
Walter,  as  he  felt  witliin  his  power.  Rousing  himself, 
and  rousing  Rob  the  Grinder  (who  in  the  unnatural 
'wilight  was  fast  asleep),  the  captain  sallied  forth  with 
^i&  attendant  at  his  heels,  and  the  door- key  in  his  jiocket, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  6S 

and  i-epairing  to  one  of  those  convenient  slop-selling 
establishments  of  which  there  is  abundant  choice  at  the 
eastern  end  of  London,  purchased  on  the  spot  two  suits 
of  mourning  —  one  for  Rob  the  Grinder,  which  was  im- 
mensely too  small,  and  one  for  himself,  which  was  im- 
mensely too  large.  He  also  provided  Rob  with  a  species  of 
hat,  greatly  to  be  admired  for  its  symmetry  and  usefulness- 
ns  well  as  for  a  happy  blending  of  the  mariner  with  the 
coal-heaver  ;  which  is  usually  termed  a  sou'wester ;  and 
which  was  something  of  a  novelty  in  connection  with  the 
instrument  business.  In  their  several  garments,  which 
the  vendor  declared  to  be  such  a  miracle  in  point  of  fit 
as  notliing  but  a  rare  combination  of  fortuitous  circum- 
stances ever  brought  about,  and  the  fashion  of  which 
was  unparalleled  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  in- 
habitant, the  captain  and  Grinder  immediately  arrayed 
themselves:  presenting  a  spectacle  fraught  with  wonder 
to  all  who  beheld  it. 

In  this  altered  form,  the  captain  received  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I'm  took  aback,  my  lad,  at  present,"  said  the  captain, 
"and  will  only  confirm  that  there  ill  news.  Tell  the 
young  woman  to  break  it  gentle  to  the  young  lady,  and 
for  neither  of  'em  never  to  think  of  me  no  more  — 
'special,  mind  you,  that  is  —  though  I  will  think  of 
them,  when  night  comes  on  a  hurricane  and  seas  is 
mountains  rowling,  for  which  overhaul  your  Doctor 
Watts,  brother,  and  when  found  make  a  note  on." 

The  captain  reserved,  until  some  fitter  time,  the  con- 
.-ideration  of  ^Mr.  Toots'^  offer  of  friendship,  and  thus 
dismissed  him.  Captain  Cuttle's  spirits  were  so  low,  in 
truth,  that  he  half  determined,  that  day,  to  take  no  fur- 
ther precautions  against  surprise  from  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
but  to  abandon  himself  recklessly  to  chance,  and  be  Indif- 


56  DOSIBET   AND  SON. 

fei-ont  to  what  might  happen.  As  evening  came  on,  h« 
fell  iulo  a  better  frame  of  mind,  however;  and  sf>oke 
much  of  Walter  to  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  attention 
and  fidelity  he  likewise  incidentally  commended.  Roh 
did  not  blush  to  hear  the  captain  earnest  in  his  praises, 
but  sat  staring  at  him,  and  affecting  to  snivel  with  sym- 
pathy, and  making  a  feint  of  being  virtuous,  and  treas- 
uring up  every  word  he  said  (like  a  young  spy  as  he 
was)  with  yerji  promising  deceit. 

When  Rob  had  turned  in,  and  was  fast  asleep,  the 
captain  trimmed  the  candle,  put  on  his  spectacles  —  he 
had  felt  it  appropriate  to  take  to  spectacles  on  entering 
into  the  Instrument  Trade,  though  his  eyes  were  like  a 
hawk's  —  and  opened  the  prayer-book  at  the  Burial  Ser- 
vice. And  reading  softly  to  himself,  in  the  little  back- 
parlor,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  wipe  his  eyes,  the 
captain,  in  a  true  and  simple  spirit,  committed  Walter's 
body  to  the  deep. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  07 


CHAPTER   XXXin. 

CONTRASTS. 

TcRN  we  our  eyes  upon  two  homes ;  not  lying  ^d* 
by  side,  but  wide  apart,  though  both  within  easy  range 
Rnd  reach  of  the  great  city  of  London. 

The  first  is  situated  in  the  green  and  wooded  country 
near  Norwood.  It  is  not  a  mansion  ;  it  is  of  no  preten- 
sions as  to  size ;  but  it  is  beautifully  arranged,  and  taste- 
fully kept.  The  lawn,  the  soft,  smooth  slope,  the  flower- 
garden,  the  clumps  of  trees  where  graceful  forms  of  ash 
and  willow  are  not  wanting,  the  conservatory,  the  rustic 
veranda  with  sweet-smelling  creeping  plants  entwined 
about  the  pillars,  the  simple  exterior  of  the  house,  the 
well-ordered  offices,  though  all  upon  the  diminutive 
8Cfile  proper  to  a  mere  cottage,  bespeak  an  amount  of 
elegant  comfort  within,  that  might  serve  for  a  palace. 
This  indication  is  not  without  warrant ;  for,  within  it  is 
a  hou^e  of  refinement  and  luxury.  Rich  colors,  excel- 
lently blended,  meet  the  eye  at  every  turn ;  in  the  fun 
niture  —  its  proportions  admirably  devised  to  suit  the 
shapes  and  sizes  of  the  small  rooms  ;  on  the  walls;  upon 
the  floors  ;  tinging  and  subduing  the  light  that  comes  ir 
through  the  odd  glass-doors  and  windows  here  and  there 
There  are  a  few  choice  prints  and  pictures,  too :  ii- 
quaint  nooks  and  recesses   there  is  no  want  of  bookd. 


58  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

and  there  are  games  of  skill  and  chance  set  forth  on 
tables  —  fantastic  chessmen,  dice,  backgammon,  cards* 
and  billiards. 

And  yet,  amidst  this  opulence  of  comfort,  there  ift 
something  in  the  general  air  that  is  not  well.  Is  it  tha\ 
the  carpets  and  the  cushions  are  too  soft  and  noiseless,  so 
that  those  who  move  or  repose  among  them  seem  to  ad 
by  stealth !  Is  it  that  the  prints  and  pictures  do  not 
commemorate  great  thoughts  or  deeds,  or  render  nature 
in  the  poetry  of  landscape,  hall,  or  hut,  but  are  of  one 
voluptuous  cast  —  mere  shows  of  form  and  color  —  and 
no  more  ?  Is  it  that  the  books  have  all  their  gold  out- 
side, and  that  the  titles  of  the  greater  part  qualify  them 
to  be  companions  of  the  prints  and  pictures  ?  Is  it  that 
the  completeness  and  the  beauty  of  the  place  is  here  and 
there  belied  by  an  affectation  of  humility,  in  some  unim- 
poi'tant  and  inexpensive  regard,  which  is  as  false  as  the 
face  of  the  too  truly  painted  portrait  hanging  yonder,  or 
its  original  at  breakfast  in  his  easy-chair  below  it  ?  Or  is 
it  that,  with  the  daily  breath  of  that  original  and  master 
of  all  here,  there  issues  forth  some  subtle  portion  of  him- 
Belf,  which  gives  a  vague  expression  of  himself  to  every- 
thing about  him  ? 

It  is  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  who  sits  in  the  easy- 
chair.  A  gaudy  parrot  in  a  burnished  cage  upon  the 
table  tears  at  the  wires  with  her  beak,  and  goes  walking, 
upside  down,  in  its  dome-top,  shaking  her  house  and 
screeching ;  but  Mr.  Carker  is  indifferent  to  the  bird,  _ 
!ind  looks  with  a  musing  smile  at  a  picture  on  the  op* 
posite  wall. 

"  A  most  extraordinary  accidental  likeness,  certainly,' 
isays  he. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  Juno;   perhaps  a  Fotiphar's  wife; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  59 

perhaps  some  scornful  nymph  —  according  as  the  Pio- 
tuie  dealers  found  the  market,  when  they  christened  it. 
It  is  the  figure  of  a  woman,  supremely  handsome,  who^ 
turning  away,  but  with  her  face  addressed  to  the  speo 
tator,  flashes  her  proud  glance  upon  him. 

It  is  like  Edith. 

With  a  passing  gesture  of  his  hand  at  the  picture  — 
what !  a  menace  ?  No ;  yet  something  like  it.  A  wave 
as  if  triumph  ?  No ;  yet  more  like  that.  An  insolent 
salute  wafted  from  his  lips  ?  No ;  yet  like  that  too  —  he 
resumes  his  breakfast,  and  calls  to  the  chafing  and  im- 
prisoned bird,  who,  coming  down  into  a  pendant  gilded 
hoop  within  the  cage,  like  a  great  wedding-ring,  swings 
in  it,  for  his  delight. 

The  second  home  is  on  the  other  side  of  London,  near 
to  where  the  busy  great  north  road  of  bygone  days  is 
silent  and  almost  deserted,  except  by  wayfarers  who  toil 
along  on  foot.  It  is  a  poor,  small  house,  barely  and 
sparely  furnished,  but  very  clean  ;  and  there  is  even  an 
attempt  to  decorate  it,  shown  in  the  homely  flowers 
ti'ained  about  the  porch  and  in  the  narrow  garden.  The 
neighborhood  in  which  it  stands  has  as  little  of  the  coun- 
try to  recommend  it,  as  it  has  of  the  town.  It  is  neither 
of  the  town  or  country.  The  former,  like  the  giant  in 
his  travelling  boots,  has  made  a  stride  and  passed  it,  and 
has  set  his  brick-and-mortar  heel  a  long  way  in  advance  j 
but  the  intermediate  space  between  the  giant's  feet,  as 
yet,  is  only  blighted  country,  and  not  town ;  and  here, 
»raong  a  few  tall  chimneys  belching  smoke  all  day  and 
night,  and  among  the  brick-fields  and  the  lanes  wh^re 
turf  is  cut,  and  where  the  fences  tumble  down,  and  where 
the  dusty  nettles  grow,  and  where  a  scrap  or  two  of  hedge 
Biay  yet  be  seen,  and  where  the  bird-catcher  still  cornea 


60  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

occasionally,  though  he  swears  every  time  to  come  na 
more  —  this  second  home  is  to  be  foand. 

She  who  inhabits  it,  is  she  who  left  the  first  in  her 
devotion  to  an  outcast  brother.  She  withdrew  from  that 
home  its  redeeming  spirit,  and  from  its  master's  breast 
his  solitary  angel :  but  though  his  liking  for  her  is  gone, 
after  this  ungrateful  slight  as  he  considers  it ;  and  though 
be  abandons  her  altogether  in  return,  an  old  idea  of  her 
is  not  quite  forgotten  even  by  him.  Let  her  flower- 
garden,  in  which  he  never  sets  his  foot,  but  which  is  yet 
maintained,  among  all  his  costly  alterations,  as  if  she  had 
quitted  it  but  yesterday,  bear  witness  ! 

Harriet  Carker  has  changed  since  then,  and  on  her 
beauty  there  has  fallen  a  heavier  shade  than  Time  of 
his  unassisted  self  can  cast,  all-potent  as  he.  is  —  the 
shadow  of  anxiety  and  sorrow,  and  the  daily  struggle  of 
a  poor  existence.  But  it  is  beauty  still ;  and  still  a 
gentle,  quiet,  and  retiring  beauty  that  must  be  sought 
out,  for  it  cannot  vaunt  itself;  if  it  could,  it  would  be 
what  it  is,  no  more. 

Yes.  This  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  neatly  dressed 
in  homely  stuffs,  and  indicating  nothing  but  the  dull, 
household  virtues,  that  have  so  little  in  common  with  the 
received  idea  of  heroism  and  greatness,  unless,  indeed, 
any  ray  of  them  should  shine  through  the  lives  of  the 
great  ones  of  the  earth,  when  it  becomes  a  constellation 
ftod  is  tracked  in  heaven  straightway  —  this  slight,  small, 
patient  figure,  leaning  on  the  man  still  young  but  worn 
and  gray,  is  she  his  sister,  who,  of  all  the  world,  went 
3ver  to  him  in  his  shame  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  and 
with  a  sweet  composure  and  determination,  led  him 
hopefiiUy  upon  his  bairen  way. 

♦*It  is  early,  John,"  she  said.  "Why  do  you  go  so 
early?" 


DOMBEY    AJJD  SON.  H 

•*  Not  many  minutes  earlier  than  usual,  Harriet.  If  1 
have  the  time  to  spare,  I  should  like,  I  think  —  it's  a 
lancy  —  to  walk  once  by  the  house  where  I  took  leave 
of  him." 

''  I  wish  I  had  ever  seen  or  known  him,  John." 

"  It  is  better  as  it  is,  my  dear,  remembering  his  fate." 

"But  I  could  not  regret  it  more,  though  I  had  knows 
him.  Is  not  your  sorrow  mine  ?  And  if  I  had,  perhaps 
you  wou'd  feel  that  I  was  a  better  companion  to  you  in 
speaking  about  him,  than  I  may  seem  now," 

"  My  dearest  sister !  Is  there  anything  within  the 
range  of  rejoicing  or  regret,  in  which  I  am  not  sure  of 
your  companionship  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you  think  not,  John,  for  surely  there  is  noth- 
ing!" 

"  How  could  you  be  better  to  me,  or  nearer  to  me 
then,  than  you  are  in  this,  or  anything  ? "  said  her 
brother.  "  I  feel  that  you  did  know  him,  Harriet,  and 
that  you  shared  my  feelings  towards  him." 

She  drew  the  hand  which  had  been  resting  on  hia 
shoulder,  round  his  neck,  and  answered,  with  some  hesi- 
tation : 

"  No,  not  quite." 

"  True,  true,"  he  said  ;  "  you  think  I  might  have  don* 
him  no  harm  if  I  had  allowed  myself  to  know  him  bet- 
ter ?  " 

"  Think  !  I  know  it." 

"  Designedly,  Heaven  knows  I  would  not,"  he  replied, 
shaking  his  head  mournfully :  "  but  his  reputation  waa 
too  precious  to  be  perilled  by  such  association.  Whether 
you  share  that  knowledge,  or  do  not,  my  dear"  — 

"  I  do  not,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  It  is  still  the  truth,  Harriet,  and  my  mind  is  lightel 


•ia 


wibtfli  I  tflmk  of  Uafir  1 

iiMLiiiiri 

s 

titmmm 
UnedTM 

lOiDt  ;mifl  fibea^Idh 

dMi 

It  JMI  »  1 

ndl 

«■  JWBT^M 

■■OIBL,  ami  ipctt  rit  WS  ■  (RXtiHI 

gnef;  ftp  is  Ac  dml  he  snr 
aqNm  at — tfiom^  weamt  aai  cdka  as  SBy 
at  aonelt — aai  bb  Ae  «bbjMm^  aai  Jhwlim  «£ 

aaeai;,  SBi  Baope,  Bie  anr  Ae  laiUler  iEraiKi  dT  In  «Bi  < 

Skffi  sttaei  at  l&e  Ant  liiJiiii^  d&er  loa,  uralA  ke? 
ImiiIi  hftaJy  dh^ei  !■  —rii  liM;,  ae  lae  — ie  tii  way 
0wr  OK  itnws^  shI  vhbwb  villEh  0t  bmmmiI  wfevh  Ibv 
kfisDe  dbeir  Iiwiiil,  mticli  had  oaae  ^bI  aoa;  Is^g  aga) 

fceea  a  fBi.ai— fl  aKarlaw^  ■■!  ans  aonr  a  ivoy  v^alR^ 
«Mp  af  kBgnHgB  of 
raattrf  ife  idiiHii,, Mff  Aey  hai  1 
AsRB.    W&Mnecvr  Ik  laital  ladk — «b  aai 
bae  iAaaeHDami^ 
■  hn  «a^,  mad  am 


«C  ik^^ksUyt*  taij 


Wttf 

Aftrr  taBM.IiMi  i— if  M  Ab 


64  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  opened  the  door,  and 
gave  him  admission  to  the  little  parlor.  Tlie  gentleman 
Eat  down  there,  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  over  against 
her,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  perfectly  corresponded  to 
his  appearance,  and  with  a  simplicity  that  was  very 
engaging : 

"  Miss  Harriet,  you  cannot  be  proud.  You  signified 
to  me,  when  I  called  t'other  morning,  that  you  wer& 
Pardon  me,  if  I  say  that  I  looked  into  your  face  whilo 
you  spoke,  and  that  it  contradicted  you.  I  look  into 
it  again,"  he  added,  laying  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm, 
for  an  instant,  "  and  it  contradicts  you  more  and  more.** 

She  was  somewhat  confused  and  agitated,  and  could 
make  no  ready  answer. 

"  It  is  the  mirror  of  truth,"  said  her  visitor,  "  and 
gentleness.      Excuse  my  trusting  to  it,  and  returning." 

His  manner  of  saying  these  words,  divested  them  en- 
tirely of  the  character  of  compliments.  It  was  so  plain, 
grave,  unaffected,  and  sincere,  that  she  bent  her  head, 
as  if  at  once  to  thank  him  and  acknowledge  his  sin- 
cerity. 

"  The  disparity  between  our  ages,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, "  and  the  plainness  of  my  purpose,  empower  me, 
1  am  glad  to  think,  to  speak  my  mind.  That  is  my 
mind ;  and  so  you  see  me  for  the  second  time." 

"  There  is  a  kind  of  pride,  sir,"  she  returned,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  "or  what  may  be  supposed  to  b<;  pride, 
which  is  mere  duty.     I  hope  I  cherish  no  other." 

"  For  yourself,"  he  said. 

"  For  myself." 

"But  —  pardon  me" —  suggested  the  gentleman. 
For  your  brother  John  ?  " 

**  Proud  of  his  love,  I  am,"  said  Harriet,  looking  fuU 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  60 

upon  her  visitor,  and  changing  her  manner  on  the  in- 
stant —  not  that  it  was  less  composed  and  quiet,  but  that 
tliere  was  a  deep  impassioned  earnestness  in  it  that  made 
tlie  very  tremble  in  her  voice  a  part  of  her  firmness, 
"  and  proud  of  him.  Sir,  you  who  strangely  know  the 
story  of  his  life,  and  repeated  it  to  me  when  you  wer 
here  last"  — 

"  Merely  to  make  my  way  into  your  confidence,"  in- 
terposed the  gentleman.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  sup- 
pose "  — 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  you  revived  it,  in  my  hear* 
ing,  with  a  kind  and  good  purpose.  I  am  quite  sure 
of  it." 

"  I  thank  you,"  returned  her  visitor,  pressing  her  hand 
hastily.  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  You  do  me  jus- 
tice, I  assure  you.  You  were  going  to  say,  that  I,  who 
know  the  story  of  John  Carker's  life  "  — 

"  May  think  it  pride  in  me,"  she  continued,  "  when  I 
say  that  I  am  proud  of  him  !  I  am.  You  know  the 
time  was,  when  I  was  not  —  when  I  could  not  be  —  but 
that  is  past.  The  humility  of  many  years,  the  uncom- 
plaining expiation,  the  true  repentance,  the  terrible  re- 
gret, the  pain  I  know  he  has  even  in  my  affecfion,  which 
he  thinks  has  cost  me  dear,  though  Heaven  knows  I  am 
happy,  but  for  his  sorrow  !  —  oh  sir,  after  what  I  have 
seen,  let  me  conjure  yon,  if  you  are  in  any  place  of 
power,  and  are  ever  wronged,  never,  for  any  wrong,  in- 
flict a  punishment  that  cannot  be  recalled ;  while  thei-e 
is  a  God  above  us  to  work  changes  in  the  hearts  Ho 
made." 

"Your  bi  other  is  an  altered  man,"  returned  the  gentle- 
man, compassionately.     "  I  assure  you,  I  don't  doubt  it." 

"  He  was  an  altered  man  when  he  did  wrong,"  said 
VOL.  ni.  5 


66  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Harriet.  "  He  is  an  altered  man  again,  and  is  bis  tra« 
self  now,  believe  me,  sir." 

"  But  we  go  on,"  said  ber  visitor,  rubbing  his  fore- 
bead,  in  an  absent  manner,  witb  bis  hand,  and  then 
drumming  thoughtfully  on  the  table,  "  we  go  on  in  oar 
clock-work  routine,  from  day  to  day,  and  can't  make  out, 
or  follow,  these  changes.  They  —  they're  a  metaphysi- 
cal sort  of  thing.  We  —  we  haven't  leisure  for  iL  We 
—  we  haven't  courage.  They're  not  taught  at  schools 
or  colleges,  and  we  don't  know  how  to  set  about  it  In 
short,  we  are  so  d  d  business-like,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, walking  to  the  window,  and  back,  and  sitting  down 
again,  in  a  state  of  extreme  dissatisfaction  and  vex- 
ation. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  the  gentleman,  rubbing  his  fore- 
head again,  and  drumming  on  the  table  as  before ;  "  I 
have  good  reason  to  believe  that  a  jog-trot  life,  the  same 
from  day  to  day,  would  reconcile  one  to  anything.  One 
don't  see  anything,  one  don't  hear  anything,  one  don't 
know  anything ;  that's  the  fact  We  go  on  taking  every- 
thing for  granted,  and  so  we  go  on,  until  whatever  we 
do,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  we  do  from  habit.  Habit  ia 
all  I  sbair  have  to  report,  when  I  am  called  upon  to 
plead  to  my  conscience  on  my  death-bed.  *  Habit,'  says 
I ;  '  I  was  deaf,  dumb,  blind,  and  paralytic,  to  a  million 
things,  from  habit.'  '  Very  business-like  indeed,  Mr. 
What's-your-name,'  says  Conscience,  '  but  it  won't  do 
here!'" 

The  gentleman  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window 
igain  and  back :  seriously  uneasy,  though  giving  \m 
uneasiness  this  peculiar  expression. 

"  Miss  Harriet,''  he  said,  resuming  his  chair,  "  1 
ftlsh  you  would    let   me   serve  you.     Look  at  me  :    I 


DOMBEY  AND   SON".  # 

ought  to  look  honest,  for  I  know  I  am  so,  at  present 
Do  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  smile. 

'*  I  believe  every  word  you  have  said,"  he  returned 
I  am  full  of  self-reproach  that  I  might  have  known 
this  and  seen  this,  and  known  you  an(^  seen  you,  any 
time  these  dozen  years,  and  that  I  never  have.  I  hardly 
know  how  I  ever  got  here  —  creature  that  I  am,  not 
only  of  my  own  habit,  but  of  other  people's !  But  hav- 
hig  done  so,  let  me  do  something.  1  ask  it  in  all  honor 
and  respect.  You  inspire  me  with  both,  in  the  highest 
degree.     Let  me  do  something." 

"  We  are  contented,  sir." 

"  No,  no,  not  quite,"  returned  the  gentleman.  "  I 
think  not  quite.  There  are  some  little  comforts  that 
migiit  smooth  your  life,  and  his.  And  his ! "  he  re- 
peated, fancying  that  had  made  some  impression  on  her. 
"  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  thinking  that  there  was 
nothing  wanting  to  be  done  for  him  ;  that  it  was  all 
settled  and  over;  in  short,  of  not  thinking  at  all  about 
it.  I  am  different  now.  Let  me  do  something  for  him. 
You  too,"  said  the  visitor,  with  careful  delicacy,  "  have 
need  to  watch  your  health  closely,  for  his  sake,  and  I 
fear  it  fails." 

"  Whoever  you  may  be,  sir,"  answered  Harriet,  rais- 
ing her  eyes  to  his  face,  "  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you. 
I  feel  cei'tain  that  in  all  you  say,  you  have  no  object  in 
the  world  but  kindness  to  us.  But  years  have  passed 
since  we  began  this  life ;  and  to  take  from  my  brother 
any  part  of  what  has  so  endeared  him  to  me,  and  so 
proved  his  better  resolution  —  any  fragment  of  the 
Aierit  of  his  unassisted,  obscure,  and  forgotten  repara- 
Vion  —  would   be  to  diminish  the  comfort  it  will   be  tc 


68  DOMBET  AND  SON 

him  and  me,  when  that  time  comes  to  each  of  us,  of 
which  you  spoke  just  now.  I  thank  jou  better  with 
these  tears  than  any  words.     Beheve  it,  pray." 

The  gentleman  was  moved,  and  put  the  hand  she  held 
out  to  his  lips,  much  as  a  tender  father  might  kiss  the 
hand  of  a  dutiful  child.     But  more  reverently. 

"  If  the  day  should  ever  come,"  said  Harriet,  "  when 
he  is  restored,  in  part,  to  the  position  he  lost"  — 

"  Restored !  "  cried  the  gentleman,  quickly.  "  How 
can  that  be  hoped  for?  In  whose  hands  does  the 
power  of  any  restoration  lie  ?  It  is  no  mistake  of 
mine,  surely,  to  suppose  that  his  having  gained  the 
priceless  blessing  of  his  life,  is  one  cause  of  the  ani- 
mosity shown  to  him  by  his  brother." 

"  You  touch  upon  a  subject  that  is  never  breathed  be- 
tween us  ;  not  even  between  us,"  said  Harriet. 

"  I  beg  your  forgiveness,"  said  the  visitor,  "  I  should 
have  known  it.  I  entreat  you  to  forget  that  I  have  done 
so,  inadvertently.  And  now,  as  I  dare  urge  no  more  — 
as  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  a  right  to  do  so  —  though 
Heaven  knows,  even  that  doubt  may  be  habit,"  said  the 
gentleman,  rubbing  his  head,  as  despondently  as  before, 
**let  me;  though  a  stranger,  yet  no  stranger;  ask  two 
favors." 

''  What  are  they  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"The  first,  that  if  you  should  see  cause  to  change 
your  i-esolution,  you  will  suffer  me  to  be  as  your  right 
hand.  My  name  shall  then  be  at  your  service ;  it  is 
aseless  now,  and  always  insignificant." 

"  Our  choice  of  friends,"  she  answered,  smiling  faintly, 
''  ie  nut  so  great,  that  I  need  any  time  for  consideration. 
r  can  promise  that." 

'^  The  second,  that  you  will  allow  me  sometimes,  say 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  69 

every  Monday  morning,  at  nine  o'clock  — habit  again  — 
I  must  be  business-like,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a 
whimsical  inclination  to  quarrel  with  himself  on  that 
liead,  "  in  walking  past,  to  see  you  at  the  door  or  win- 
dow. I  don't  ask  to  come  in,  as  your  brother  will  be 
gone  out  at  that  hour.  I  don't  ask  to  speak  to  you.  I 
merely  ask  to  see,  for  the  satisfaction  of  my  own  mind, 
that  you  are  well,  and  without  intrusion  to  remind  yoo, 
by  the  sight  of  me,  that  you  have  a  friend  —  an  elderly 
friend,  gray-haired  already,  and  fast  growing  grayer  — 
whom  you  may  ever  command." 

The  cordial  face  looked  up  in  his  ;  confided  in  it ;  and 
promised. 

"  I  understand,  as  before,"  said  the  gentleman,  rising. 
"  that  you  purpose  not  to  mention  my  visit  to  John 
Carker,  lest  he  should  be  at  all  distressed  by  my  ac- 
quaintance with  his  history.  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  it  is 
out  of  the  ordinary  coui'se  of  things,  and  —  habit  again!" 
said  the  gentleman,  checking  himself  impatiently,  "  as  if 
there  were  no  better  course  than  the  ordinary  course!" 

With  that  he  turned  to  go,  and  walking,  bare-headed, 
to  the  outside  of  the  little  porch,  took  leave  of  her  with 
such  a  happy  mixture  of  unconstrained  respect  and  un- 
affected interest,  as  no  breeding  could  have  taught,  no 
truth  mistrusted,  and  nothing  but  a  pure  and  single  heart 
expressed. 

Many  half-forgotten  emotions  were  awakened  in  the 
sister's  mind  by  this  visit.  It  was  so  very  long  since 
any  other  visitor  had  crossed  their  threshold  ;  it  was  so 
rery  long  since  any  voice  of  sympathy  had  made  sad 
Diusic  in  her  ears ;  that  the  stranger's  figure  remained 
present  to  her,  hours  afterwards,  when  «he  sat  at  the 
wmdow,  plying  her  needle ;  and  his  words  seemed  newly 


70  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

spoken,  again  and  again.  He  had  touched  the  spring 
that  opened  her  whole  life;  and  if  she  lost  him  for  a 
short  space,  it  was  only  among  the  many  shapes  of 
the  one  great  recollection  of  which  that  life  was 
made. 

Musing  and  working  by  turns  ;  now  constraining  her- 
self to  be  steady  at  her  needle  for  a  long  time  together, 
and  now  letting  her  work  fall,  unregarded,  on  her  lap, 
and  straying  wheresoever  her  busier  thoughts  led,  Har- 
riet Carker  found  the  hours  glide  by  her,  and  the  day 
steal  on.  The  morping,  which  had  been  bright  and 
clear,  gradually  becauie  overcast ;  a  sharp  wind  set  in ; 
the  rain  fell  heavily  ;  and  a  dark  mist  drooping  over  the 
distant  town,  hid  it  from  the  view. 

She  often  looked  with  compassion,  at  such  a  time,  upon 
the  stragglers  who  came  wandering  into  London,  by  the 
great  highway  hard-by,  and  who,  footsore  and  weary, 
and  gazing  fearfully  at  the  huge  town  before  them,  as  if 
foreboding  that  their  misery  there  would  be  but  as  a 
drop  of  water  in  the  sea,  or  as  a  grain  of  sea-sand  on 
the  shore,  went  shrinking  on,  cowering  before  the  angry 
weather,  and  looking  as  if  the  very  elements  rejected 
them.  Day  after  day,  such  travellers  crept  past,  but 
always,  as  she  thought,  in  one  direction  —  always  tow- 
ards the  town.  Swallowed  up  in  one  phase  or  other  of 
its  immensity,  towards  which  they  seemed  impelled  by  a 
desperate  fascination,  they  never  returned.  Food  for 
the  hospitals,  the  church-yards,  the  prisons,  the  river,_ 
fever,  madness,  vice,  and  death, —  they  passed  on  to  lhe~ 
monster,  roaring  in  the  distance,  and  were  lost. 

The  chill  wind  was  howling,  and  the  rain  was  falling, 
and  the  day  was  darkening  moodily,  when  Harriet,  rais- 
ug  her  eyes  from  the  work  on  which  she  bad  long  since 


i 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Tl 

been  engaged  with  unremitting  constancy,  saw  one  <rf 
these  travellers  approaching. 

A  woman.  A  solitary  woman  of  some  thirty  years  of 
age  ;  tall ;  well-formed  ;  handsome  ;  miserably  dressed ; 
the  soil  of  many  country  roads  in  varied  weather  —  dutt, 
chalk,  clay,  gravel  —  clotted  on  her  gray  cloak  by  the 
streaming  wet ;  no  bonnet  on  her  head,  nothing  to  de- 
fend her  rich  black  hair  from  the  rain,  but  a  torn  hand- 
kerchief; with  the  fluttering  ends  of  which,  and  with 
her  hair,  the  wind  blinded  her  so  that  she  often  stopped 
to  push  them  back,  and  look  upon  the  way  she  was 
going. 

She  was  in  the  act  of  doing  so,  when  Harriet  obsei'ved 
her.  As  her  hands,  parting  on  her  sun-burnt  forehead, 
swept  across  her  face,  and  threw  aside  the  hindrances 
that  encroached  upon  it,  there  was  a  reckless  and  re- 
gardless beauty  in  it ;  a  dauntless  and  depraved  indif- 
ference to  more  than  weather :  a  carelessness  of  what 
was  cast  upon  her  bare  head  from  heaven  or  earth :  that, 
coupled  with  her  misery  and  loneliness,  touched  the 
heart  of  her  fellow-woman.  She  thought  of  all  that 
was  perverted  and  debased  within  her,  no  less  than 
without :  of  modest  graces  of  the  mind,  hardened  and 
steeled,  like  these  attractions  of  the  person ;  of  the 
many  gifts  of  the  Ci'eator  flung  to  the  winds  like  the 
wild  hair ;  of  all  the  beautiful  ruin  upon  which  the  storm 
was  beating  and  the  night  was  coming. 

Thinking  of  this,  she  did  not  turn  away  with  a  delicate 
indignation  —  too  many  of  her  own  compassionate  and 
tender  sex  too  often  do — but  pitied  her. 

Her  fallen  sister  came  on,  looking  far  before  her,  try- 
ing with  her  eager  eyes  to  pierce  the  mist  in  which  the 
£ity  was  enshrouded,  and  glan'^ing,  now  and  then,  frrjm 


72  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

side  lo  side,  with  the  bewildered  and  uncertain  aspect  of 
a  stranger.  Though  her  tread  was  bold  and  courageous, 
she  was  fatigued,  and  after  a  moment  of  irresolution,  sal 
down  upon  a  heap  of  stones ;  seeking  no  shelter  from 
the  rain,  but  letting  it  rain  on  her  as  it  would. 

She  was  now  opposite  the  house ;  raising  her  head 
after  resting  it  for  a  moment  on  both  hands,  her  eyes 
ajet  those  of  Harriet. 

In  a  moment,  Harriet  was  at  the  door ;  and  the  other, 
rising  from  her  seat  at  her  beck,  came  slowly,  and  with 
fio  conciliatory  look,  towards  her. 

*'  Why  do  you  rest  in  the  rain  ?  "  said  Harriet,  gently. 

"  Because  I  have  no  other  resting-place,"  was  the 
reply. 

"  But  there  are  many  places  of  shelter  near  here. 
This,"  referring  to  the  little  porch,  "  is  better  than  where 
you  were.     You  are  very  welcome  to  rest  here." 

The  wanderer  looked  at  her,  in  doubt  and  surprise, 
but  without  any  expression  of  thankfulness ;  and  silting 
down,  and  taking  off  one  of  her  worn  shoes  to  beat  out 
the  fragmentt  of  stone  and  dust  that  were  inside,  showed 
that  her  foot  was  cut  and  bleeding. 

Harriet  uttering  an  expression  of  pity,  the  traveller 
looked  up  with  a  contemptuous  and  incredulous   smile. 

'*  Why  what's  a  torn  foot  to  such  as  me  ?  "  she  said. 
**  And  what's  a  torn  foot  in  such  as  me,  to  such  as  you  ? " 

"  Come  in  and  wash  it,"  answered  Harriet,  mildly 
*  and  let  me  give  you  something  to  bind  it  up." 

The  woman  caught  her  arm,  and  drawing  it  before 
her  own  eyes,  hid  them  against  it,  and  wept.  Not  like  a 
woman,  but  like  a  stern  man  surprised  into  that  weak- 
ness ;  with  a  violent  heaving  of  her  breast,  and  struggle 
for  recovery,  that  showed  how  unusual  the  emotion  was 
with  her. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7^ 

She  submitted  to  be  led  into  the  house,  and,  evidently 
more  in  gi-atitude  than  in  any  care  for  herself,  washed 
and  bound  the  injured  place.  Harriet  then  put  before 
her  fragments  of  her  own  frugal  dinner,  and  when  she 
had  eaten  of  them,  though  sparingly,  besought  her,  be- 
fore resuming  her  road  (which  she  showed  her  anxiety 
to  do),  to  dry  her  clothes  before  the  fire.  Again,  more 
in  gratitude  than  with  any  evidence  of  concern  in  her 
own  behalf,  she  sat  down  in  front  of  it,  and  unbinding 
the  handkerchief  about  her  head,  and  letting  her  thick 
wet  hair  fall  down  below  her  waist,  sat  drying  it  with 
the  palms  of  her  hands,  and  looking  at  the  blaze. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  thinking,"  she  said,  lifting  her 
head  suddenly,  "  that  I  used  to  be  handsome,  once.  I 
believe  I  was  —  I  know  I  was.     Look  here  !  " 

She  held  up  her  hair  roughly  with  both  hands ;  seiz- 
ing it  as  if  she  would  have  torn  it  out ;  then,  threw  it 
down  again,  and  flung  it  back  as  though  it  were  a  heap 
of  serpents. 

"  Are  you  a  stranger  in  this  place  ?  "  asked  Harriet. 

"  A  stranger !  "  she  returned,  stopping  between  each 
short  reply,  and  looking  at  the  fire,  "  Yes.  Ten  or  a 
dozen  years  a  stranger.  I  have  had  no  almanac  where 
I  have  been.  Ten  or  a  dozen  years.  I  don't  know  this 
part.     It's  much  altered  since  I  went  away." 

"  Have  you  been  far  ?  " 

"  Very  far.  Months  upon  months  over  the  sea  and 
far  away  even  then.  I  have  been  where  convicts  go," 
she  added,  looking  full  upon  her  entertainer.  "  I  have 
Wen  one  myself." 

"  Heaven  help  you  and  forgive  you  !  "  was  the  gentle 
unswer. 

"  Ah  !     Heaven  help  me  and  forgive  me  1 "   she  re- 


74  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

turned,  nodding  her  head  at  the  fire.  "If  man  would 
help  some  of  us  a  little  more,  God  would  forgive  us  all 
the  sooner  perhaps." 

But  she  was  softened  by  the  earnest  manner,  and  the 
cordial  face  so  full  of  mildness  and  so  free  from  judg- 
ment, of  her,  and  said,  less  hardily: 

"  We  may  be  about  the  same  age,  you  and  me.  If  I 
am  older,  it  is  not  above  a  year  or  two.  Oh  think  of 
that ! " 

She  opened  her  arms,  as  though  the  exhibition  of  her 
outward  form  would  show  the  moral  wretch  she  was ; 
and  letting  them  drop  at  her  sides,  hung  down  her  head. 

"  There  is  nothing  we  may  not  hope  to  repair ;  it  is 
never  too  late  to  amend,"  said  Harriet  "  You  are  peni- 
tent "  — 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  not !  I  can't  be.  I  am 
no  such  thing.  Why  should  /  be  penitent,  and  all  the 
world  go  free.  They  talk  to  me  of  my  penitence. 
Who's  penitent  for  the  wrongs  that  have  been  done 
to  me!" 

She  rose  up,  bound  her  handkerchief  about  her  head, 
and  turned  to  move  away. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  Yonder,"  she  answered,  pointing  with  her  hand. 
«To  London." 

"  Have  you  any  home  to  go  to  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  have  a  mother.  She's  as  much  a  mother, 
as  her  dwelling  is  a  home,"  she  answered  with  a  bitter 
laugh. 

"  Take  this,"  cried  Harriet,  putting  money  in  her 
hand.  "  Try  to  do  well.  It  is  very  little,  but  for  one 
day  it  may  keep  you  from  harm." 

"  Are  you  married  ?  "  said  the  other,  faintly,  as  she 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  75 

"No.  I  live  here  with  my  brother.  We  have  not 
much  to  spare,  or  I  would  give  you  more." 

"  Will  you  let  me  kiss  you  ?  " 

Seeing  no  scorn  or  repugnance  in  her  face,  the  object 
of  her  charity  bent  over  her  as  she  asked  the  question, 
and  pressed  her  lips  against  her  cheek.  Once  more  she 
caught  her  arm,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  it ;  and  then 
was  gone. 

Gone  into  the  deepening  night,  and  howling  wind,  and 
pelting  rain  ;  urging  her  way  on  towards  the  mist-en- 
shrouded city  where  the  blurred  lights  gleamed ;  and 
with  her  black  hair  and  disordered  bead-gear,  fluttering 
round  her  reckless  face. 


76  DOMBEY  AND  SON 


CHAPTER  XXXrV. 

AI70THER  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 

Ik  an  ugly  and  dark  room,  an  old  woman,  ugly  and 
dark  too,  sat  listening  to  the  wind  and  rain,  and  crouch- 
ing over  a  meagre  fire.  More  constant  to  the  last-named 
occupation  than  the  first,  she  never  changed  her  attitude, 
unless,  when  any  stray  drops  of  rain  fell  hissing  on  the 
Bmouldering  embers,  to  raise  her  head  with  an  awakened 
attention  to  the  whistling  and  pattering  outside,  and 
gradually  to  let  it  fall  again  lower  and  lower  and  lower 
as  she  sunk  into  a  brooding  state  of  thought,  in  which 
the  noises  of  the  night  were  as  indistinctly  regarded  as 
is  the  monotonous  rolling  of  a  sea  by  one  who  sits  in 
contemplation  on  its  shore. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  that  which  the 
fire  afforded.  Glaring  sullenly  from  time  to  time  like 
the  eye  of  a  fierce  beast  half  asleep,  it  revealed  no  ob- 
jects that  needed  to  be  jealous  of  a  better  display.  A 
heap  of  rags,  a  heap  of  bones,  a  wretched  bed,  two  or 
three  mutilated  chairs  or  stools,  the  black  walls  and 
blacker  ceiling,  were  all  its  winking  brightness  shone - 
apon.  As  the  old  woman,  with  a  gigantic  and  distorted 
image  of  herself,  thrown  half  upon  the  wall  behind  her, 
half  upon  the  roof  above,  sat  bending  over  the  few  loose 
bricks  within  which  it  was  pent,  on  the  damp  hearth  of 
the  chimiicy  —  for  there  was  no  stove  —  she  looked  as 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  77 

if  she  were  watching  at  some  witch's  altar  for  a  favor- 
able  token  ;  and  but  that  the  movement  of  her  chattering 
jaws  and  trembling  chin  was  too  frequent  and  too  fast 
for  the  slow  flickering  of  the  fire,  it  would  have  seemed 
an  illusion  wrought  by  the  Hght,  as  it  came  and  went, 
upon  a  face  as  motionless  as  the  form  to  which  it  b€« 
kmged. 

If  Florence  could  have  stood  within  the  room  and 
looked  upon  the  original  of  the  shadow  thrown  upon  the 
wall  and  roof,  as  it  cowered  thus  over  the  fire,  a  glance 
might  have  sufficed  to  recall  the  figure  of  Good  IMrs. 
Brown  ;  notwithstanding  that  her  childish  recollection  of 
that  terrible  old  woman  was  as  grotesque  and  exagger- 
ated a  presentment  of  the  truth,  perhaps,  as  the  shadow 
on  the  wall.  But  Florence  was  not  there  to  look  on ; 
and  Good  Mi's.  Bi-own  remained  unrecognized,  and  sat 
staring  at  her  fire,  unobserved. 

Attracted  by  a  louder  sputtering  than  usual,  as  the 
rain  came  hissing  down  the  chimney  in  a  little  stream, 
the  old  woman  raised  her  head,  impatiently,  to  listen 
afresh.  And  this  time  she  did  not  drop  it  again  ;  for 
there  was  a  hand  upon  the  door,  and  a  footstep  in  the 
room. 

"  Who's  that  ? "  she  said,  looking  over  her  shoul- 
der. 

"  One  who  brings  you  news,"  was  the  answer,  in  a 
woman's  voice. 

"  News  ?     Where  from  ?  " 

"  From  abroad." 

"  From  beyond  seas  ?  "  cried  the  old  woman,  starting 
up. 

"  Ay,  from  beyond  seas." 

The  old  woman  raked  the  fire  together,  hurriedly,  and 


78  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

going  close  to  her  visitor  who  had  entered,  and  shut  the 
door,  and  who  now  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  put 
her  hand  upon  the  drenched  cloak,  and  turned  the  un- 
resisting figure,  so  as  to  have  it  in  the  full  light  of  the 
fire.  She  did  not  find  what  she  had  expected,  whatever 
that  might  be  ;  for  she  let  the  cloak  go  again,  and  ut- 
tered a  querulous  cry  of  disappointment  and  misery. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  her  visitor. 

**  Oho !  Oho !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  turning  her  face 
upward,  with  a  terrible  howl. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  the  visitor  again. 

*'  It's  not  my  gal ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  tossing  up 
her  arms,  and  clasping  her  hands  above  her  head. 
"  Where's  my  Alice  ?  Where's  my  handsome  daughter  ? 
They've  been  the  deathof  her  1 " 

"  They've  not  been  the  death  of  her  yet,  if  your  name's 
Marwood,"  said  the  visitor. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  gal  then  ?  "  cried  the  old  woman. 
"  Has  she  wrote  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  said  you  couldn't  read,"  returned  the  other. 

"  No  more  I  can  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  wring- 
ing her  hands. 

"  Have  you  no  light  here  ? "  said  the  other,  looking 
round  the  room. 

The  old  woman,  mumbling  and  shaking  her  head, 
and  muttering  to  herself  about  her  handsome  daughter, 
brought  a  candle  from  a  cupboard  in  the  corner,  and 
ihrusting  it  into  the  fire  with  a  trembling  hand,  lighted 
it  with  some  difiiculty  and  set  it  on  the  table.  Its  dirty 
wick  burnt  dimly  at  first,  being  choked  in  its  own  grease ; 
and  when  the  bleared  eyes  and  failing  sight  of  the  old 
woman  could  distinguish  anything  by  its  light,  her  visitor 
was  sitting  with  her  arms  folded,  her  eyes  turned  down 


DOMBEY  A2«D  SON.  7B 

Mrards  and  a  handkerchief  she  had  worn  apon  her  head 
lying  on  the  table  by  her  side. 

"  She  sent  to  me  by  word  of  mouth  then,  ray  gal, 
Alice  ? "  mumbled  the  old  woman,  after  waiting  for 
» ime  moments.     "  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Look,"  returned  the  visitor. 

The  old  woman  repeated  the  word  in  a  scared  uncer- 
fain  way ;  and,  shading  her  eyes,  looked  at  the  speaker, 
round  the  room,  and  at  the  speaker  once  again. 

"  Alice  said  look  again,  mother ; "  and  the  speaker 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  her. 

Again  the  old  woman  looked  round  the  room,  and  at 
her  visitor,  and  round  the  room  once  more.  Hastily 
seizing  the  candle,  and  rising  from  her  seat,  she  held  it 
to  the  visitor's  face,  uttered  a  loud  cry,  set  down  the 
light,  and  fell  upon  her  neck ! 

"  It's  my  gal !  It's  my  Alice  !  It's  my  handsome 
daughter,  living  and  come  back!"  screametl  the  old 
woman,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  upon  the  breast  that 
coldly  suffered  her  embrace.  "  It's  my  gal !  It's  my 
Alice !  It's  my  handsome  daughter,  living  and  come 
back ! "  she  screamed  again,  dropping  on  the  floor  be- 
fore her,  clasping  her  knees,  laying  her  head  against 
them,  and  still  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  with  every 
frantic  demonstration  of  which  her  vitality  was  capa- 
ble. 

'•  Yea,  mother,"  returned  Alice,  stooping  forward  for  a 
noment,  and  kissing  her,  but  endeavoring,  even  in  the 
act,  to  disengage  herself  from  her  embrace.  "  I  am 
bore,  at  last.  Let  go,  mother ;  let  go.  Get  up,  and  sit 
In  your  chair.     What  good  does  this  do  ?  " 

"  She's  come  back  harder  than  she  went ! "  cried  the 
(aothor,  looking  up  in  her  face,  and  still  holding  to  her 


80  DOMBEY   AND  SOW. 

knees.  "  She  don't  care  for  me !  after  all  these  years, 
and  all  the  wretched  life  I've  led ! " 

"  Why,  mother  ! "  said  Alice,  shaking  her  ragged 
skirts  to  detach  the  old  woman  from  them :  "  there  are 
two  sides  to  that.  There  have  been  years  for  me  as 
well  as  you,  and  there  has  been  wretchedness  for  me  as 
well  as  you.     Get  up,  get  up  ! " 

Her  mother  rose,  and  cried,  and  wrung  her  hands, 
and  stood  at  a  little  distance  gazing  on  her.  Then  she 
took  the  candle  again,  and  going  round  her,  surveyed  her 
from  head  to  foot,  making  a  low  moaning  all  the  time. 
Then  she  put  the  candle  down,  resumed  her  chair,  and 
beating  her  hands  together  to  a  kind  of  weary  tune, 
and  rolling  herself  from  side  to  side,  continued  moaning 
and  wailing  to  herself. 

Alice  got  up,  took  off  her  wet  cloak,  and  laid  it  aside. 
Tliat  done,  she  sat  down  as  before,  and  with  her  arms 
folded,  and  her  eyes  gazing  at  the  fire,  remained  silently 
TK^tening  with  a  contemptuous  face  to  her  old  mother's 
inarticulate  complainings. 

"  Did  you  expect  to  see  me  return  as  youthful  as  I 
went  away,  mother?"  she  said  at  length,  turning  her 
eyes  upon  the  old  woman.  "  Did  you  think  a  foreign 
life,  like  mine,  was  good  for  good  looks  ?  One  would 
believe  so  to  hear  you  ! " 

"  It  a'n't  that !  "  cried  the  mother.     «  She  knows  it !  " 

"  What  is  it  then  ?  "  returned  the  daughter.  "  It  had 
best  be  something  that  don't  last,  mother,  or  my  way  out 
is  easier  than  my  way  in." 

"  Hear  that !  "  exclaimed  the  mother.  "  After  all 
Ihese  years  she  threatens  to  desert  me  in  the  moment  of 
her  coming  back  again  !  " 

'*  I  tell  you,  mother,  for  the  second  time,  there  have 


nOMBEY  AND  SON.  8J 

been  years  'or  me  as  well  as  you,"  said  ^Vlice.  "  Come 
back  harder  ?  Of  course  I  have  come  back  harder. 
What  else  did  you  expect?" 

"  Harder  to  me !  To  her  own  dear  mother  !  "  cried 
the  old  woman. 

"  I  don't  know  who  began  to  harden  me,  if  my  own 
dear  mother  didn't,"  she  returned,  sitting  with  her  folded 
arms,  and  knitted  brows,  and  compressed  lips  as  if  she 
were  bent  on  excluding,  by  force,  every  softer  feeling 
from  her  breast.  "  Listen,  mother,  to  a  word  or  two. 
If  we  understand  each  other  now,  we  shall  not  fall  out 
any  more,  perhaps.  I  went  away  a  girl,  and  have  come 
back  a  woman.  I  went  away  undutiful  enough,  and 
have  come  back  no  better,  you  may  swear.  But  have 
you  been  very  dutiful  to  me  ?  " 

"  I ! "  cried  the  old  woman.  "  To  my  own  gal !  A 
mother  dutiful  to  her  own  child!" 

"It  sounds  unnatural,  don't  it?"  returned  the  daughter, 
looking  coldly  on  her  with  her  stern,  regardless,  hardy, 
beautiful  face ;  "  but  I  have  thought  of  it  sometimes,  in 
the  course  of  my  lone  years,  till  I  have  got  used  to  it.  I 
have  heard  some  talk  about  duty  first  and  last ;'  but  it 
has  always  been  of  my  duty  to  other  people.  I  have 
wondered  now  and  then  —  to  pass  away  the  time  — 
whether  no  one  ever  owed  any  duty  to  me." 

Her  mother  sat  mowing,  and  mumbling,  and  shaking 
her  head,  but  whether  angrily,  or  remorsefully,  or  in  de- 
nial, or  only  in  iier  physical  infirmity,  did  not  appear. 

"  There  was  a  child  called  Alice  Marwood,"  said  the 
daughter,  with  a  laugh,  and  looking  down  at  herself  in 
V^rrible  derision  of  herself,  "  bom,  among  poverty  and 
neglect,  and  nursed  in  it.  Nobody  taught  her,  nobody 
stepped  forward  to  help  her,  nobody  cared  for  her." 


82  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  Nobody  ! "  echoed  the  mother,  pointing  to  herself 
and  striking  her  breast. 

"The  only  care  she  knew,"  returned  the  daughter 
"  was  to  be  beaten,  and  stinted,  and  abused  sometimes ; 
and  she  might  have  done  better  without  that.  She  hved 
in  homes  Hke  this,  and  in  the  streets,  with  a  crowd  of 
little  wretches  like  herself;  and  yet  she  brought  good 
looks  out  of  this  childhood.  So  much  the  worse  for  her. 
She  had  better  have  been  hunted  and  worried  to  death 
for  ugliness." 

"  Gro  on !  go  on  !  "  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"  I  am  going  on,"  returned  the  daughter.  "  There 
was  a  girl  called  Alice  Marwood.  She  was  handsome. 
She  was  taught  too  late,  and  taught  all  wrong.  She  was 
too  well  cared  for,  too  well  trained,  too  well  helped  on, 
too  much  looked  after.  You  were  very  fond  of  her  — 
you  were  better  off  then.  "What  came  to  that  girl  comes 
to  tliousands  every  year.  It  was  only  ruin,  and  she  waa 
born  to  it." 

"  After  all  these  years ! "  whined  the  old  woman. 
•*  My  gal  begins  with  -this." 

"  She'll  soon  have  ended,"  said  the  daughter.  "  There 
was  a  criminal  called  Alice  Marwood  —  a  girl  still,  but 
deserted  and  an  outcast.  And  she  was  tried,  and  she 
was  sentenced.  And  lord,  how  the  gentlemen  in  the 
court  talked  about  it !  and  how  grave  the  judge  was,  on 
her  duty,  and  on  her  having  perverted  the  gifts  of  nature 
—  as  if  he  didn't  know  better  than  anybody  there,  that 
they  had  been  made  curses  to  her !  —  and  how  he 
preached  about  the  strong  arm  of  the  Law  —  so  very 
strong  to  save  her,  when  she  was  an  innocent  and  help- 
Vss  little  wretch !  and  how  solemn  and  religious  it  aU 
was !  I  have  thought  of  that,  many  times  since,  to  he 
air*, !  " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  83 

She  folded  her  arms  tightly  on  her  breast,  and 
laughed  iu  a  tone  that  made  the  howl  of  the  old  woman 
musical. 

'•  So  Alice  Marwood  was  transported,  mother,"  she 
pursued,  "  and  was  sent  to  learn  her  duty,  where  there 
was  twenty  times  less  duty,  and  more  wickedness,  and 
wrong,  and  infamy,  than  here.  And  Alice  Marwood  ia 
come  back  a  woman.  Such  a  woman  as  she  ought  to 
be,  after  all  this.  In  good  time,  there  will  be  more 
solemnity,  and  more  fine  talk,  and  more  strong  arm, 
most  likely,  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  her;  but  the 
gentlemen  needn't  be  afraid  of  being  thrown  out  of  work. 
There's  ciowds  of  little  wretches,  boy  and  girl,  growing 
up  in  any  of  the  streets  they  live  in,  that'll  keep  them  to 
it  till  they've  made  their  fortunes." 

The  old  woman  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
resting  her  face  upon  her  two  hands,  made  a  show  of 
being  in  great  distress  —  or  really  was,  perhaps. 

"  There !  I  have  done,  mother,"  said  the  daughter, 
with  a  motion  of  her  head,  as  if  in  dismissal  of  the  sub- 
ject. "  I  have  said  enough.  Don't  let  you  and  I  talk 
of  being  dutiful,  whatever  we  do.  Your  childhood  was 
like  mine,  I  suppose.  So  much  the  worse  for  both  of 
us.  I  don't  want  to  blame  you,  or  to  defend  myself; 
why  should  I  ?  That's  all  over,  long  ago.  But  I  am  a 
woman  —  not  a  girl,  now —  and  you  and  I  needn't  make 
a  show  of  our  history,  like  the  gentlemen  in  the  court. 
We  know  all  about  it,  well  enough." 

Lost  and  degraded  as  she  was,  there  was  a  beauty  in 
ner,  both  of  face  and  form,  which,  even  in  its  worst  ex- 
|)ression,  could  not  but  be  recognized  as  such  by  any  one 
regiirding  her  with  the  least  attention.  As  she  subsided 
uto  silence,  and  her  face  which  had  been  harshly  agi' 


84  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tated,  quieted  down  ;  while  her  dark  eyes,  fixed  upon 
the  fire,  exchanged  the  reckless  light  that  had  animated 
them,  for  one  that  was  softened  by  something  like  sor- 
row ;  there  shone  through  all  her  wayworn  misery  and 
fatigue,  a  ray  of  the  departed  radiance  of  the  fallen  an- 
gel. 

Her  mother,  after  watching  her  for  some  time  without 
speaking,  ventured  to  steal  her  withered  hand  a  little 
nearer  to  her  across  the  table ;  and  finding  that  she  per- 
mitted this,  to  touch  her  face,  and  smooth  her  hair.  With 
the  feeling,  as  it  seemed,  that  the  old  woman  was  at  least 
sincere  in  this  show  of  interest,  Alice  made  no  moverarint 
to  check  her,  so,  advancing  by  degrees,  she  bound  up  her 
daughter's  hair  afresh,  took  off  her  wet  shoes,  if  they 
deserved  the  name,  spread  something  dry  upon  her  shoul- 
ders, and  hovered  humbly  about  her,  muttering  to  her- 
self, as  she  recognized  her  old  features  and  expression 
more  and  more. 

"  You  are  very  poor,  mother,  I  see,"  said  Alice,  look- 
ing round,  when  she  had  sat  thus  for  some  time. 

"  Bitter  poor,  my  deary,"  replied  the  old  woman. 

She  admired  her  daughter,  and  was  afraid  of  her. 
Pei'haps  her  admiration,  such  as  it  was,  had  originated 
k)ng  ago,  when  she  first  found  anything  that  was  beau- 
tiful appearing  in  the  midst  of  the  squalid  fight  of  her 
existence.  Perhaps  her  fear  was  referable,  in  some  sort, 
to  the  retrospect  she  had  so  lately  heard.  Be  this  as  it 
might,  she  stood,  submissively  and  deferentially,  before 
her  child,  and  inclined  her  head,  as  if  in  a  pitiful  en- 
Ireaty  to  be  spared  any  further  reproach. 

"  How  have  you  lived  ?  " 

"  By  begging,  my  deary." 

**  And  pilfering,  mother  ?  ** 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  85 

"  Soraclimes,  Ally  —  in  a  very  small  way.  I  iiii  old 
Mid  timid.  I  have  taken  trifles  from  children  now  and 
tiien,  my  deary,  but  not  often.  I  have  tramped  about 
the  country,  pet,  and  I  know  what  I  know.  I  Lave 
wat(  lied." 

"  Watched?"  returned  the  daughter,  looking  at  her. 

"  I  have  hung  about  a  family,  my  deary,"  said  the 
Oiother,  even  more  humbly  and  submissively  than  be- 
fore. 

«  What  family  ?  " 

"  Hush,  darling.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  I  did  it  for 
the  love  of  you.  In  memory  of  my  poor  gal  beyond 
seas."  She  put  out  her  hand  deprecatingly,  and  draw- 
ing it  back  again,  laid  it  on  her  lips. 

"  Years  ago,  my  deary,"  she  pursued,  glancing  timidly 
at  the  attentive  and  stern  face  opposed  to  her.  "  I  came 
across  his  little  child,  by  chance." 

"Whose  child?" 

"  Not  his,  Alice  deary ;  don't  look  at  me  like  that ; 
not  his.  How  could  it  be  his  ?  You  know  he  has 
none." 

"  Whose  then  ?  "  returned  the  daughter.  "  You  said 
his." 

"  Hush,  Ally ;  you  frighten  me,  deary.  Mr.  Dom- 
Iw's  —  only  Mr.  Dombey's.  Since  then,  darling,  I 
have  seen  them  often.     I  have  seen  him." 

In  uttering  this  last  word,  the  old  woman  shrunk  and 
recoiled,  as  if  with  a  sudden  fear  that  her  daughter 
TV'ould  strike  her.  But  though  the  daughter's  face  was 
fixed  upon  her,  and  expressed  the  most  vehement  pas- 
sion, she  remained  still :  except  that  she  clinched  her 
arras  tighter  and  tighter  within  each  other,  on  her  bosom, 
•48  if  to  restrain  them  by  that  means  from  doing  an  in- 


86  DQMBEY  AND  SOK. 

jury  to  herself,  or  some  one  else,  in  tlie  blind  fury  of 
the  wrath  that  suddenly  possessed  her. 

"  Little  he  thought  who  I  was  1 "  said  the  old  woman, 
shaking  her  clinched  hand. 

"  And  little  he  cared ! "  muttered  her  diughter,  l>e- 
tween  her  teeth. 

"  But  there  we  were,"  said  the  old  woman,  **  face  to 
face.  I  spoke  to  him,  and  he  spoke  to  me.  I  sat  and 
watched  him  as  he  went  away  down  a  long  grove  of 
trees ;  and  at  every  step  he  took,  I  cursed  him  soul 
and  body." 

"  He  will  thrive  in  spite  of  that,"  returned  the  daugh- 
ter  disdainfully. 

"  Ay,  he  is  thriving,"  said  the  mother. 

She  held  her  peace ;  for  the  face  and  form  before  her 
were  unshaped  by  rage.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bosom 
would  burst  with  the  emotions  that  strove  within  it. 
The  effort  that  constrained  and  held  it  pent  up,  was 
no  less  formidable  tlian  the  rage  itself:  no  less  bespeak- 
ing the  violent  and  dangerous  character  of  the  woman 
who  made  it.  But  it  succeeded,  and  she  asked,  after 
a  silence : 

"  Is  he  married  ?  "  v 

"  No,  deary,"  said  the  mother. 

«  Going  to  be  ?  " 

*'  Not  that  I  know  of,  deary.  But  his  master  and 
friend  is  married.  Oh,  we  may  give  him  joy !  We 
may  give  'em  all  joy ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  hugging 
herself  with  her  lean  arms  in  her  exultation.  "  Noth- 
ing but  joy  to  us  will  come  of  that  marriage.  Mind 
ne ! " 

The  daughter  looked  at  her  for  an  explanation. 

•*  But  you  are  wet  and  tired :   hungry  and   thirsty. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  87 

8aid  the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard:  "and 
there's  little  here,  and  little "  —  diving  down  into  her 
pocket,  and  jingling  a  few  halfpence  on  the  table  — 
"  little  here.     Have  you  any  money,  AUce,  deary  ?  " 

The  covetous,  sharp,  eager  face  with  which  she  asked 
the  question  and  looked  on,  as  her  daughter  took  out  of 
her  bosom  the  little  gift  she  had  so  lately  received,  told 
almost  as  much  of  the  history  of  this  parent  and  child 
as  the  child  herself  had  told  in  words, 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  the  mother. 

"  I  have  no  more.  I  should  not  have  this,  but  for 
charity." 

"But  for  charity,  eh,  deary?"  said  the  old  woman, 
bending  greedily  over  the  table  to  look  at  the  money, 
which  she  appeared  distrustful  of  her  daughter's  still  re- 
taining in  her  hand,  and  gazing  on.  "  Humph  !  six  and 
six  is  twelve  and  six  eighteen  —  so  —  we  must  make 
the  most  of  it.    I'll  go  buy  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

With  greater  alacrity  than  might  have  been  expected 
in  one  of  her  appearance  —  for  age  and  misery  seemed 
to  have  made  her  as  decrepit  as  ugly  —  she  began  to 
occupy  her  trembling  hands  in  tying  an  old  bonnet  on 
her  head,  and  folding  a  torn  shawl  about  herself:  still 
eying  the  money  in  her  daughter's  hand,  with  the  same 
sharp  desire. 

**  What  joy  is  to  come  to  us  of  this  marriage,  mother  ?  " 
asked  the  daughter.     "  You  have  not  told  me  that." 

"The  joy,"  she  repHed,  attiring  herself,  with  fumbling 
firigers,  "  of  no  love  at  all,  and  much  pride  and  hate,  my 
Jeary.  The  joy  of  confusion  and  strife  among  'em, 
^roud  as  tiiey  are,  and  of  danger  —  danger,  Alice ! " 

"  What  danger .?  " 

"  /  have   seen  what  I  have  seen.     /  know  what  1 


88  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

know  ! "  chuckled  the  mother.  "  Let  some  look  to  it 
Let  some  be  upon  their  guard.  My  gal  may  keep  good 
company  yet ! " 

Then,  seeing  that  in  the  wondering  earnestness  with 
which  her  daughter  regarded  her,  her  hand  involuntarily 
closed  upon  the  money,  the  old  woman  made  more  speetl 
to  secure  it,  and  hurriedly  added,  "  but  I'll  go  buy  some' 
thing  ;  I'll  go  buy  something." 

As  she  stood  with  her  hand  stretched  out  before  her 
daughter,  her  daughter,  glancing  again  at  the  money,  put 
it  to  her  lips  before  parting  with  it. 

"  What,  Ally !  Do  you  kiss  it  ? "  chuckled  the  old 
woman.  "  That's  like  me  —  I  often  do.  Oh,  it's  so 
good  to  us ! "  squeezing  her  own  tarnished  halfpence 
up  to  her  bag  of  a  throat,  "  so  good  to  us  in  everything 
but  not  coming  in  heaps  !  " 

"  I  kiss  it,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  "or  I  did  then 
—  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did  before  —  for  the  giver's 
sake." 

"  The  giver,  eh,  deary  ? "  retorted  the  old  woman, 
whose  dimmed  eyes  glistened  as  she  took  it.  "  Ay ! 
I'll  kiss  it  for  the  giver's  sake,  too,  when  the  giver  can 
make  it  go  farther.  But  I'll  go  spend  it,  deary.  I'll  be 
back  directly." 

"  You  seem  to  say  you  know  a  great  deal,  mother," 
said  the  daughter,  following  her  to  the  door  with  her 
eyes.     "  You  have  grown  very  wise  since  we  parted." 

"  Know  ! "  croaked  the  old  woman,  coming  back  a  step 
or  two,  "  I  know  more  than  you  think.  I  know  more 
than  he  thinks,  deary,  as  I'll  tell  you  by-and-by.  I  know 
hII  about  him." 

The  daughter  smiled  incredulously. 

**  I  know  of  his  brother.  Alice."  said  the  old  wcmiao 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  89 

Stretching  out  her  neck  with  a  leer  of  malice  absolutely 
Frightful,  "  who  might  have  been  where  you  have  been 
—  for  stealing  money  —  and  who  lives  with  his  sister, 
over  yonder,  by  the  north  road  out  of  London." 

"Where?" 

*'  By  the  north  road  out  of  London,  deary.  You  shall 
see  the  house,  if  you  like.  It  a'n't  much  to  boast  of, 
genteel  as  his  own  is.  No,  no,  no,"  cried  the  old  woman 
ghaking  her  head  and  laughing ;  for  her  daughter  had 
started  up,  "not  now  ;  it's  too  far  off;  it's  by  the  raile- 
Btone,  where  the  stones  are  heaped  ;  —  to-morrow,  deary, 
if  it's  fine,  and  you  are  in  the  humor.  But  I'll  go 
spend  "  — 

"  Stop  !  "  and  the  daughter  flung  herself  upon  her, 
with  her  former  passion  raging  like  a  fire.  "  The  sister 
is  a  fair-faced  devil,  with  brown  hair  ?  " 

The  old  woman,  amazed  and  terrified,  nodded  her 
liead. 

"  I  see  the  shadow  of  him  in  her  face  !  It's  a  red 
house  standing  by  itself.  Before  the  door  there  is  a 
small  green  j)orch." 

Again  the  old  woman  nodded. 

"  In  whicli  I  sat  to-day  !     Give  roe  back  the  money." 

«♦  Alice!    Deary!" 

"  Give  me  back  the  money,  or  you'll  be  hurt." 

She  forced  it  from  the  old  woman's  hand  as  she  spoke, 
and  utterly  inilifferent  to  her  complainings  and  entreaties, 
threw  on  the  garments  she  had  taken  off,  and  hurried 
out,  with  headlong  speed. 

The  motlier  followed,  limping  after  her  as  she  could, 
and  expostulating  with  no  more  effect  upon  her  than 
upon  the  wind  and  rain  and  darkness  that  encompassed 
them.     Obdurate  and  fierce  in  her  own  purpose,  and  in- 


90  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

different  to  all  besides,  the  daughter  defied  the  weathei 
and  the  distance,  as  if  she  had  kncwn  no  travel  on 
feligue,  and  made  for  the  house  where  she  had  been 
relieved.  After  some  quarter  of  an  hour's  walicing,  the 
old  woman,  spent  and  out  of  breath,  ventured  to  hold  by 
her  skirts  ;  but  she  ventured  no  more,  and  they  travelled 
on  in  silence  through  the  wet  and  gloom.  If  the  mother 
DOW  and  then  uttered  a  word  of  complaint,  she  stifled 
it  lest  her  daughter  should  break  away  from  her  and 
leave  her  behind ;  and  the  daughter  was  dumb. 

It  w^as  within  an  hour  or  so  of  midnight,  when  they 
left  the  regular  streets  behind  them,  and  entered  on  the 
deeper  gloom  of  that  neutral  ground  where  the  house 
was  situated.  The  town  lay  in  the  distance,  lurid  and 
lowering ;  the  bleak  wind  howled  over  the  open  space ; 
all  around  was  black,  wild,  desolate. 

"  This  is  a  fit  place  for  me  ! "  said  the  daughter,  stop- 
ping to  look  back.  "I  thought  so,  when  I  was  here 
before,  to-day." 

"Alice,  my  deary,"  cried  the  mother,  pulling  her 
gently  by  the  skirL     "  Alice !  " 

"What  now,  mother?" 

"Don't  give  the  money  back,  my  darling;  please 
don't.  We  can't  afford  it.  We  want  supper,  deary. 
Money  is  money,  whoever  gives  it.  Say  what  you  will, 
bat  keep  the  money." 

"  See  there ! "  was  all  the  daughter's  answer.  **  That 
18  the  house  I  mean.     Is  that  it  ?  " 

The  old  woman  nodded  in  the  afilrmative  ;  and  a  few 
more  paces  brought  them  to  the  threshold.  There  was 
the  light  of  fire  and  candle  in  the  room  where  Alice  had 
sat  to  dry  her  clothes  ;  and  on  her  knocking  at  the  doot 
John  Carker  appeared  from  that  room. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  tfl 

He  was  surprised  to  see  such  visitors  at  such  an  hour, 
and  asked  Alice  what  she  wanted. 

^  I  want  your  sister,"  she  said.  *'  The  woman  who 
gave  me  money  to-day." 

At  the  sound  of  her  raised  voice  Harriet  came  out. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Alice.  "  You  are  here  I  Do  you  re- 
member me?" 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  answered,  wondering. 

The  face  that  had  humbled  itself  before  her,  looked  on 
her  now  with  such  invincible  hatred  and  defiance  ;  and  the 
hand  that  had  gently  touched  her  arm,  was  clinched  with 
Buch  a  show  of  evil  purpose,  as  if  it  would  gladly  strangle 
her ;  that  she  drew  close  to  her  brother  for  protection. 

"  That  I  could  speak  with  you,  and  not  know  you ! 
That  I  could  come  near  you,  and  not  feel  what  blood 
was  running  in  your  veins,  by  the  tingling  of  ray  own !" 
said  Alice  with  a  menacing  gesture. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Done  ! "  returned  the  other.  "  You  have  sat  me  by 
your  fire ;  you  have  given  me  food  and  money ;  yoo 
have  bestowed  your  compassion  on  me !  You !  whose 
name  I  spit  upon  ! " 

The  old  woman,  with  a  malevolence  that  made  her 
ugliness  quite  awful,  shook  her  withered  hand  at  the 
brother  and  sister  in  confirmation  of  her  daughter,  but 
plucked  her  by  the  skirts  again,  nevertheless,  implorinn 
ber  to  keep  the  money. 

"  K  I  dropped  a  tear  upon  your  hand,  may  it  wither  il 
np !  If  I  spoke  a  gentle  word  in  your  hearing,  may  it 
deiifen  you!  If  I  touched  you  with  my  lips,  may  the 
touch  be  poison  to  you  !  A  curse  upon  this  roof  that 
gave  me  shelter!  Sorrow  and  shame  upon  your  head  I 
Buin  upon  all  belonging  to  you !  " 


12  bOMBKT  AND  SON. 

A^  f-he  »aid  the  words,  she  threw  the  mon^  down 
DpoD  the  ground,  and  spumed  it  with  her  foot. 

'^  I  tread  it  in  the  dust :  I  wooldn't  take  it  if  it  paved 
mv  war  to  Heaven !  I  would  the  hleeding  foot  that 
broagfat  me  here  to-dav,  had  rotted  off,  before  it  led  me 
lo  your  house!" 

Harriet,  pale  and  trembling,  restrained  her  brother, 
and  suffered  her  to  go  on  uninterrupted. 

"  It  was  well  that  I  «hoold  be  pitied  and  forgiven  bj 
TOO,  or  any  one  of  jour  name,  in  the  first  hour  of  my 
return  !  It  was  well  that  you  should  act  the  kind  good 
ladj  to  me !  I'll  thank  you  when  I  die ;  111  pray  f<Mr 
yon,  and  all  your  race,  you  may  be  sure ! " 

With  a  fierce  action  (^  her  hand,  as  if  she  sprinkled 
hatred  on  the  ground,  and  with  it  devoted  those  who 
were  standing  there  to  destruction,  she  looked  up  once 
at  the  black  sky,  and  strode  out  into  the  wild  nighL 

The  mother,  who  had  plucked  at  her  skirts  again  and 
again  in  vain,  and  had  eyed  the  money  lying  on  the 
threshold  with  an  absorbing  greed  that  seemed  to  con- 
centrate her  faculties  upon  it,  would  hare  prowled  about, 
until  the  house  was  dark,  and  then  groped  in  the  mire 
on  the  chance  of  repossessing  herself  of  it.  But  the 
daughter  drew  h^'  away,  and  they  set  forth,  straight,  on 
their  return  to  their  dwelUng ;  the  old  woman  whimper- 
mg  and  bemoaning  their  kkss  upon  the  road,  and  fret- 
fully bewailing,  as  <^penly  as  she  dared,  the  ondutifol 
conduct  of  her  handsome  girl  in  depriving  her  of  a  sup- 
per, on  the  veiy  first  night  of  their  reunion. 

Sopperless  to  bed  she  went,  saving  for  a  few  coarse 
fragments ;  and  those  she  sat  mumbling  and  munching 
over  a  scrap  of  fire,  long  after  her  undutiful  daughter 
by  asleep. 


DO>rBET  AST)  SON.  90 

Were  this  miserable  mother,  and  this  miserable 
daughter,  only  the  reduction  to  their  lowest  grade,  of 
certain  social  vices  sometimes  prevailing  higher  up  ?  In 
this  roand  world  of  many  circles  within  circles,  do  we 
make  a  weary  journey  from  the  high  grade  to  the  low, 
to  find  at  last  that  they  lie  close  together,  that  the  two 
extremes  touch,  and  that  our  journey's  end  is  bat  our 
ptarting-place  ?  Allowing  for  great  difference  of  stuff 
ind  texture,  was  the  pattern  of  this  woof  repeated 
among  gentle  blood  at  all  ? 

Say,  Edith  Dombey !  And  Cleopatra,  best  of  mothers, 
let  us  h&ve  your  te^im<xiy  i 


94  DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


THE  HAPPY   PAIR. 


The  dark  blot  on  the  street  18  gone.  Mr.  Dombey's 
mansion,  if  it  be  a  gap  among  the  o(her  houses  any 
longer,  is  only  so  because  it  is  not  to  be  vied  with  in  its 
brightness,  and  haughtily  cast  thera  off.  The  saying  is, 
that  home  is  home,  be  it  never  so  homely.  If  it  hold 
good  in  the  opposite  contingency,  and  home  is  home  be 
it  never  so  stately,  what  an  altai  to  the  Household  Gods 
is  raised  up  here  ! 

Lights  are  sparkling  in  the  windows  this  evening,  and 
the  ruddy  glow  of  fires  is  warm  and  bright  upon  the 
hangings  and  soft  carpets,  and  the  dinner  waits  to  be 
served,  and  the  dinner-table  is  handsomely  set  forth, 
though  only  for  four  persons,  and  the  sideboard  is  cum- 
brous with  plate.  It  is  the  first  time  that  the  house  has 
been  arranged  for  occupation  since  its  late  changes,  and 
the  happy  pair  are  looked  for  every  minute. 

Only  second  to  the  wedding-morning,  in  the  interest 
and  expectation  it  engenders  among  the  household,   is 
this  evening  of  the  coming  home.     Mrs.  Perch  is  in  the^ 
kitchen  taking  tea ;  and  has  made  the  tour  of  the  estab- 
lishment, and  priced  the  silks  and  damasks  by  the  yard 
iind  exhausted  «very  interjection  in  the  dictionary  ar 
out  of  it  expressive  of  admiration  and   wonder.      Tl 
vpholbtcrer's    fbremaa.    who   has    left    his    hut,    wilii 


i 


DOMKET  AND   SON.  95 

pocket-handkerchief  in  it,  both  smelling  sti-onpjly  of  var- 
nish, under  a  chair  in  the  hall,  lurks  about  the  house, 
gazing  upward  at  the  cornices,  and  downward  at  the 
carpets,  and  occasionally,  in  a  silent  transport  of  enjoy 
raent,  taking  a  rule  out  of  his  pocket,  and  skirmish! ngly 
measuring  expensive  objects,  with  unutterable  feelings 
Cook  is  in  high  spirits,  and  says  give  her  a  place  where 
there's  plenty  of  company  (as  she'll  bet  you  sixpence 
there  will  be  now),  for  she  is  of  a  lively  disposition,  and 
Bhe  always  was  from  a  child,  and  she  don't  mind  who 
knows  it ;  which  sentiment  elicits  from  the  breast  of  Mrs* 
Perch  a  responsive  murmur  of  support  and  approbation. 
All  the  house-maid  hopes  is,  happiness  for  'em  —  but  mar- 
riage is  a  lottery,  and  the  more  she  thinks  about  it,  the 
more  she  feels  the  independence  and  the  safety  of  a 
single  life.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  saturnine  and  grim,  and 
says  that's  his  opinion  too,  and  give  him  war  besides, 
and  down  with  the  French  —  for  this  young  man  has  a 
general  impression  that  every  foreigner  is  a  Frenchman, 
and  must  be  by  the  laws  of  nature. 

At  each  new  sound  of  wheels,  they  all  stop,  whatever 
they  are  saying,  and  listen ;  and  more  than  once  there 
is  a  general  starting  up  and  a  cry  of  "  Here  they  are ! " 
But  here  they  are  not  yet ;  and  cook  begins  to  mourn 
over  the  dinner,  wiiich  has  been  put  back  twice,  and  the 
upholsterer's  foreman  still  goes  lurking  about  the  rooms, 
nndisturbed  in  his  blissful  revery ! 

Florence  is  ready  to  receive  her  father  and  her  new 
mama.  "Whether  the  emotions  that  are  throbbing  in  her 
breast  originate  in  pleasure  or  in  pain,  she  hardly  knows. 
But  the  fluttering  heart  sends  added  color  to  her  cheeks, 
and  briglitness  to  her  eyes ;  and  they  say  down-stairs, 
drawing  their  heads  together  —  for  they  always  speak 


96  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

poftly  when  they  speak  of  her  —  how  beautiful  Mis« 
Florence  looks  to-night,  and  what  a  sweet  young  lady 
she  has  grown,  poor  dear  !  A  pause  succeeds  ;  and  then 
cook,  feeling  as  president,  that  her  sentiments  are  waited 
for,  wonders  whether  —  and  there  stops.  The  houso» 
maid  wonders  too,  and  so  does  Mrs.  Perch,  who  has  the 
happy  social  faculty  of  always  wondering  when  oiher 
people  wonder,  without  being  at  all  particular  what  she 
wonders  at  Mr.  Towlinson,  who  now  descries  an  op- 
portunity of  bringing  down  the  spirits  of  (he  ladies  to 
his  own  level,  says  wait  and  see :  he  wishes  some  people 
were  well  out  of  this.  Cook  leads  a  sigh  then,  and  a 
murmur  of  "Ah,  it's  a  strange  world,  —  it  is  indeed!" 
and  when  it  has  gone  round  the  table,  adds  persua- 
sively, "  but  Miss  Florence  can't  well  be  the  worse  for 
any  change,  Tom."  Mr.  Towlinson's  rejoinder,  preg- 
nant with  frightful  meaning,  is,  "  Oh,  can't  she  though!" 
and  sensible  that  a  mere  man  can  scarcely  be  more 
prophetic,  or  improve  upon  that,  he  holds  his  peace. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  prepared  to  greet  her  darling  daughter 
and  dear  son-in-law  with  open  arms,  is  appropriately 
attired  for  that  purpose  in  a  very  youthful  costume,  with 
short  sleeves.  At  present,  however,  her  ripe  charms 
are  blooming  in  the  shade  of  her  own  apartments,  whence 
she  has  not  emerged  since  she  took  possession  of  them 
a  few  hours  ago,  and  where  she  is  fast  growing  fret- 
ful, on  account  of  the  postponement  of  dinner.  The  maid 
who  ought  to  be  a  skeleton,  but  is  in  truth  a  buxom 
damsel,  is,  on  the  other  hand,  in  a  most  amiable  fitate ; 
considering  her  quarterly  stipend  much  safer  than  here- 
tofore, and  foreseeing  a  great  improvement  in  her  board 
Rnd  lodging. 

Where  are  the  happy  pair,  for  whom  this  brave  houM 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  97 

is  waiting  ?  Do  steam,  tide,  wind,  and  horses,  all  abate 
their  speed,  to  linger  on  such  happiness  ?  Does  tho 
swarm  of  loves  and  graces  hovering  about  them  retard 
their  progress  by  its  numbers  ?  Are  there  so  many 
flowers  in  their  happy  path,  that  they  can  scarcely 
move  along,  without  entanglement  in  thornless  roses  and 
sweetest  brier? 

They  are  here  at  last !  The  noise  of  wheels  is  heard, 
grows  louder,  and  a  carriage  drives  up  to  the  door ! 
A  thundering  knock  from  the  obnoxious  foreigner  an- 
ticipates the  rush  of  Mr.  Towlinson  and  party  to  open 
it ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  bride  alight,  and  walk  in 
arm  and  arm. 

*'  My  sweetest  Edith  !  "  cries  an  agitated  voice  upon 
the  stairs.  "  INIy  dearest  Dombey ! "  and  the  short  sleeves 
wreath  themselves  about  the  happy  couple  in  turn,  and 
embrace  them. 

Florence  had  come  down  to  the  hall  too,  but  did 
not  advance :  reserving  her  timid  welcome  until  these 
nearer  and  dearer  transports  should  subside.  But  the 
eyes  of  Edith  sought  her  out,  upon  the  threshold ;  and 
dismissing  her  sensitive  parent  with  a  slight  kiss  on 
the  clieek,  she  hurried  on  to  Florence  and  embmced 
her. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Florence  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  put- 
ting out  his  hand. 

As  Florence,  trembling,  raised  it  to  her  lips,  she  met 
bis  glance.  The  look  was  cold  and  distant  enough,  but 
ft  stirred  her  heart  to  think  that  she  observed  in  it 
something  more  of  interest  than  he  had  ever  shown  be- 
fore. It  even  expressed  a  kind  of  faint  surprise,  and 
Dot  a  disagreeable  surprise,  at  sight  of  her.  She  dared 
act  raise  her  eyes  to  his  any  more ;  but  she  felt  that 
VOL.  m.  7 


98  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

he  looked  at  her  once  again,  and  not  less  favorably 
Oh  !  what  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  through  her,  awakened  by 
even  this  intangible  and  baseless  confirmation  of  her 
hope  that  she  would  learn  to  win  him,  through  her  new 
and  beautiful  mama! 

"  You  will  not  be  long  dressing,  Mrs.  Dombey,  I  pre- 
sume ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  shall  be  ready  immediately." 

*'  Let  them  send  up  dinner  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

With  that  Mr.  Dombey  stalked  away  to  his  own  dress* 
ing-roora,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  went  up-stairs  to  hers. 
Mrs.  Skewton  and  Florence  repaired  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  that  excellent  mother  considered  it  incum- 
,  bent  on  her  to  shed  a  few  irrepressible  tears,  supposed 
to  be  forced  from  her  by  her  daughter's  felicity ;  and 
which  she  was  still  drying,  very  gingerly,  with  a  laced 
corner  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  when  her  son-in-law 
appeared. 

"  And  how,  ray  dearest  Dombey,  did  you  find  that 
delightfullest  of  cities,  Paris  ?  "  she  asked,  subduing  her 
emotion. 

"  It  was  cold,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Gay  as  ever,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "of  course." 

"  Not  particularly.  I  thought  it  dull,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

"  Fie,  my  dearest  Dombey!  "  archly  ;  "  dull!  " 

**  It  made  that  impression  upon  me,  madam,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  grave  politeness.  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey found  it  dull  too.  She  mentioned  once  or  twice  that 
phe  thought  it  so." 

''  Wliy,  you  naughty  girl !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  rally 
ing  her  dear  child,  who  now  entered,  "  what  dreadfullj 
heretical  thing>>  have  you  been  saying  about  Paris  ? " 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  99 

Edith  raised  her  eyebrows  with  an  air  of  weariness ; 
and  passing  the  folding-doors,  which  were  thrown  open 
to  display  the  suite  of  rooms  in  their  new  and  hand- 
some garniture,  and  barely  glancing  at  them  as  she 
passed,  sat  down  by  Florence. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  how  charm 
jngly  these  people  have  carried  out  every  idea  that  wc 
hinted.  They  have  made  a  perfect  palace  of  the  house, 
positively." 

"  It  is  handsome,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round. 
"  I  directed  that  no  expense  should  be  spared  ;  and  all 
that  money  could  do,  has  been  done,  I  believe." 

"  And  what  can  it  not  do,  dear  Dombey  ?  "  observed 
Cleopatra. 

"  It  is  powerful,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

He  looked  in  his  solemn  way  towards  his  wife,  but 
not  a  word  said  she. 

*'  I  hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  addressing  her  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  with  especial  distinctness  ;  "  that  these 
alterations  meet  with  your  approval  ?  " 

•'  They  are  as  handsome  as  they  can  be,"  she  returned, 
with  haughty  carelessness.  "  They  should  be  so,  of 
course.     And  I  suppose  they  are." 

An  expression  of  scorn  was  habitual  to  the  proud  face, 
and  seemed  inseparable  from  it ;  but  the  contempt  with 
which  it  received  any  appeal  to  admiration,  respect,  or 
consideration  on  the  ground  of  his  riches,  no  matter  how 
slight  or  ordinary  in  itself,  was  a  new  and  different  ex- 
pression, unequalled  in  intensity  by  any  other  of  which 
it  was  capable.  "Whether  Mr.  Dombey,  wrapped  in  his 
own  greatness,  was  at  all  aware  of  this,  or  no,  therp 
had  not  been  wanting  opportunities  already  for  his  com- 
olete  enlightenment ;  and  at  that  moment  it  might  have 


100  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

been  effected  by  the  one  glance  of  the  dark  eye  that 
lighted  on  him,  after  it  had  rapidly  and  scornfully  sur- 
veyed the  theme  of  his  self-glorification.  He  might  have 
read  in  that  one  glance  that  nothing  that  his  wealth  could 
do,  though  it  were  increased  ten  thousand  fold,  could 
win  him  for  its  own  sake,  one  look  of  softened  recog- 
nition fi'om  the  defiant  woman,  linked  to  him,  but  arrayed 
with  her  whole  soul  against  him.  He  might  have  read 
in  that  one  glance  that  even  for  its  sordid  and  mercenary 
influence  upon  herself,  she  spurned  it,  while  she  claimed 
its  utmost  power  as  her  right,  her  bargain  —  as  the  base 
and  worthless  recompense  for  which  she  had  become  his 
wife.  He  might  have  read  in  it  that,  ever  baring  her 
own  head  for  the  lightning  of  her  own  contempt  and 
pride  to  strike,  the  most  innocent  allusion  to  the  power 
of  his  riches  degraded  her  anew,  sunk  her  deeper  in  her 
own  respect,  and  made  the  blight  and  waste  within  her 
more  complete. 

But  dinner  was  announced,  and  Mr.  Dombey  led  down 
Cleopatra  ;  Edith  and  his  daughter  following.  Sweep- 
ing past  the  gold  and  silver  demonstration  on  the  side- 
board as  if  it  were  heaped-up  dirt,  and  deigning  to 
bestow  no  look  upon  the  elegancies  around  her,  she  took 
her  place  at  his  board  for  the  first  time,  and  sat,  like  a 
statue,  at  the  feast. 

Mr-.  Dombey,  being  a  good  deal  in  the  statue  way  him* 
self,  was  well  enough  pleased  to  see  his  handsome  wife 
immovable  and  proud  and  cold.  Her  deportment  being 
>ilways  elegant  and  graceful,  this  as  a  general  behavior 
was  agreeable  and  congenial  to  him.  Presiding,  there- 
fore, with  his  accustomed  dignity,  and  not  at  all  reflect' 
ing  on  his  wife  by  any  warmth  or  hilarity  of  his  own, 
be  performed  his  share  of  the  honors  of  the  table  witb 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  .  101 

a  c(X)l  satisfaction ;  and  the  installation  dinner,  tliough 
fiot  regai'ded  down-stairs  as  a  great  success,  or  very 
promising  beginning,  passed  off,  above,  in  a  sufficiently 
polite,  genteel,  and  frosty  manner. 

Soon  after  tea,  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  affected  to  be  quite 
overcome  and  worn  out  by  her  emotions  of  happiness 
wising  in  the  contemplation  of  her  dear  child  united 
to  the  man  of  her  heart,  but  who,  there  is  reason  to 
suppose,  found  this  family  party  somewhat  dull,  as  she 
yawned  for  one  hour  continually  behind  her  fan,  retired 
to  bed.  Edith,  also,  silently  withdrew  and  came  back 
no  more.  Thus,  it  happened  that  Florence,  who  had 
been  up-stairs  to  have  some  conversation  with  Diogenes, 
returning  to  the  drawing-room  with  her  little  work-bas- 
kei,  found  no  one  there  but  her  father,  who  was  walking 
to  and  fro,  in  dreary  magnificence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Shall  I  go  away,  papa  ? "  said 
Florence  faintly,  hesitating  at  the  door. 

'"  No,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  leoking  round  over  hia 
shoulder ;  "you  can  come  and  go  here,  Florence,  as  you 
please.     This  is  not  ray  private  room." 

Florence  entered,  and  sat  down  at  a  distant  little  table 
with  her  work :  finding  herself  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  —  for  the  very  first  time  within  her  memory  from 
her  infancy  to  that  hour  —  alone  with  her  father,  as  hia 
companion.  She,  his  natural  companion,  his  only  child, 
who  in  her  lonely  life  and  grief  had  known  the  suffering 
of  a  breaking  heart;  who,  in  her  rejected  love,  had  never 
brtiHthed  his  name  to  God  at  night,  but  wiih  a  tearful 
blessing,  heavier  on  him  than  a  curse  ;  who  had  prayed 
to  die  young,  so  she  might  only  die  in  his  arms 
who  had,  all  through,  repaid  the  agony  of  slight  and 
ftoldne»3.    and    dislike,    with    patient    unexacting    lova 


102  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

excusing  him,  and  pleading  for  him,  like  his  better 
nngel ! 

She  trembled,  and  her  eyes  were  dim.  His  figure 
Beemed  to  grow  in  height  and  bulk  before  her  as  he 
paced  the  room :  now  it  was  all  blurred  and  indistinct ; 
now  clear  again,  and  plain  ;  and  now  she  seemed  to 
think  that  this  had  happened,  just  the  same,  a  multitude 
of  years  ago.  She  yearned  towards  him,  and  yet  shrunk 
from  his  approach.  Unnatural  emotion  in  a  child,  inno* 
cent  of  wrong !  Unnatural  the  hand  that  had  directed 
the  sharp  plough,  which  furrowed  up  her  gentle  nature 
for  the  sowing  of  its  seeds ! 

Bent  upon  not  distressing  or  offending  him  by  her 
distress,  Florence  controlled  herself,  and  sat  quietly  at 
her  work.  After  a  few  qjore  turns  across  and  across  the 
room,  he  left  off  pacing  it ;  and  withdrawing  into  a  shad- 
owy corner  at  some  distance,  where  there  was  an  easy- 
chair,  covered  his  head  wilh  a  handkerchief,  and  com- 
posed himself  to  sleep. 

It  was  enough  for  Florence  to  sit  there,  watching 
him  ;  turning  her  eyes  towards  his  cliair  fi-om  time  to 
time ;  watching  him  with  her  thoughts,  when  her  face 
was  intent  upon  her  work ;  and  sorrowfully  glad  to  think 
that  he  could  sleep,  while  she  was  there,  and  that  he  was 
not  made  restless  by  her  strange  and  long-forbidden 
presence. 

What  would  have  been  her  thoughts  if  she  had  known 
that  he  was  steadily  regarding  her ;  that  the  veil  upon 
bis  face,  by  accident  or  by  design,  was  so  adjusted  tliaf 
his  sight  was  free,  and  that  it  never  wandered  from  her 
face  an  instant.  That  when  she  looked  towards  him,  iu 
the  obscure  dark  corner,  her  speaking  eyes,  more  earnest 
Rnd  pathetic  in  their  voiceless  speech  than  all  the  orators 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  103 

cf  all  the  world,  and  impeaching  him  more  nearly  iu 
their  mute  address,  met  his,  and  did  not  know  it.  That 
when  she  bent  her  head  again  over  her  work,  he  drew 
his  breath  more  easily,  but  with  the  same  attention 
looked  upon  her  still  —  upon  her  white  brow  and  her 
falling  hair,  and  busy  hands ;  and  once  attracted,  seemed 
to  have  no  power  to  turn  his  eyes  away  ! 

And  what  were  his  thoughts  meanwhile  ?  "With  what 
emotions  did  he  prolong  the  attentive  gaze  covertly  di- 
rected on  liis  unknown  daugliter  ?  Was  there  reproach 
to  him  in  the  quiet  figure  and  the  mild  eyes  ?  Had  he 
begun  to  feel  her  disregarded  claims,  and  did  they  touch 
him  home  at  last,  and  waken  him  to  some  sense  of  his 
cruel  injustice  ? 

Tliere  are  yielding  moments  in  the  lives  of  the  stern- 
est and  harsliest  men,  though  such  men  often  keep  their 
B*icret  well.  The  sight  of  her  in  her  beauty,  almost 
changed  into  a  woman  without  his  knowledge,  may  have 
struck  out  some  such  moments  even  in  his  life  of  pride. 
Some  passing  thought  that  he  had  had  a  happy  home 
within  his  reach  —  had  had  a  household  spirit  bending 
at  his  feet  —  had  overlooked  it  in  his  stiff-necked  sullen 
arrogance,  and  wandered  away  and  lost  himself,  may 
have  engendered  them.  Some  simple  eloquence  dis- 
tinctly heard,  though  only  uttered  in  her  eyes,  uncon- 
sciou^^iat  he  read  them,  as  "  By  the  death- beds  I  have 
tended,  by  the  childhood  I  have  suffered,  by  our  meeting 
in  ihis  dreary  house  at  midnight,  by  the  cry  wrung  from 
me  in  the  anguish  of  ray  heart,  oh,  father,  turn  to  ran 
and  seek  a  refuge  in  my  love  before  it  is  too  late ! "  may 
have  arrested  them.  Mearer  and  lower  thoughts,  as  that 
his  dead  boy  was  now  superseded  by  new  ties,  and  he 
?culd  forgive  the  having  been  supplanted  in  his  afiectioi^ 


104  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

may  have  occasioned  thera.  The  mere  associ:ition  of 
her  as  an  ornament,  with  all  the  ornament  and  pomp 
about  him,  may  have  been  sufficient.  But  as  he  looked, 
he  softened  to  her,  more  and  more.  As  he  looked,  she 
became  blended  with  the  child  he  had  loved,  and  he 
could  hardly  separate  the  two.  As  he  looked,  he  saw 
ber  for  an  instiint  by  a  clearer  and  a  brighter  light,  not 
bending  over  that  child's  pillow  as  his  rival  —  monstrous 
thought  —  but  as  the  spirit  of  his  home,  and  in  the  ac- 
tion tending  himself  no  less,  as  he  sat  once  more  with 
his  bowed-down  head  upon  his  hand  at  the  foot  of  the 
Sittle  bed.  He  felt  inclined  to  speak  to  her,  and  call  her 
^o  him.  The  words  *'  Florence,  come  here ! "  were  rising 
to  his  lips  —  but  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  they  were  so 
very  strange  —  when  they  were  checked  and  stifled  by 
a   footstep  on  the  stair. 

It  was  his  wife's.  She  had  exchanged  her  dinner- 
dress  for  a  loose  robe,  and  unbound  her  hair,  which  fell 
freely  about  her  neck.  But  this  was  not  the  change  in 
her  that  startled  him. 

"  Florence,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  have  been  looking  for 
you  everywhere." 

As  she  sat  down  by  the  side  of  Florence,  she  stooped 
and  kissed  her  hand.  He  hardly  knew  his  wife.  She 
was  3o  changed.  It  was  not  merely  that  her  smile  was 
new  to  him  —  though  that  he  had  never  seen ;  Ifel  hei 
manner,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  the  light  of  her  eyes, 
the  interest,  and  confidence,  and  winning  wish  to  please,, 
expressed  in  all  —  this  was  not  Edith. 

"  Softly,  dear  mama.     Papa  is  asleep." 

It  was  Edith  now.  She  looked  towards  the  comer 
where  he  was,  and  he  knew  that  face  and  manner  very 
veil. 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  lOfl 

"  1  scarcely  thought  you  could  be  here,  Florence.'* 

Again,  how  altered  and  how  softened,  in  an  instant 

"  I  left  here  early,"  pursued  Edith,  "  purposely  to  sit 
up-stairs  and  talk  with  you.  But,  going  to  your  room, 
I  found  ray  bird  was  flown,  and  T  have  been  waiting 
there  ever  since,  expecting  its  return." 

If  it  had  been  a  bird,  indeed,  she  could  not  have 
taken  it  more  tenderly  and  gently  to  her  breast,  than 
she  did  Florence. 

"  Come,  dear  !  " 

"  Papa  will  not  expect  to  find  rae,  I  suppose,  when  he 
wakes,"  hesitated  Florence. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will,  Florence  ? "  said  Edith,  look- 
ing full  upon  her. 

Florence  drooped  her  head,  and  rose,  and  put  up  her 
work-basket.  Edith  drew  her  hand  through  her  arm, 
and  they  went  out  of  the  room  like  sisters.  Her  very 
step  was  different  and  new  to  him,  Mr.  Dombey  thought 
as  his  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door. 

He  sat  in  his  shadowy  corner  so  long,  that  the  churcb 
clocks  struck  the  hour  three  times  before  he  moved  thai 
night.  All  that  while  his  face  was  still  intent  upon 
the  spot  where  Florence  had  been  seated.  The  room 
grew  darker,  as  the  candles  waned  and  went  out ;  but 
a  darkness  gathered  on  his  face,  exceeding  any  that  the 
night  could  cast,  and  rested  there. 

Florence  and  Edith,  seated  before  the  fire  in  the  rff 
\nore  room  where  little  Paul  had  died,  talked  together 
tor  a  long  time.  Diogenes,  who  was  of  the  party,  had 
at  first  objected  to  the  admission  of  Edith,  and,  even  in 
deference  to  his  mistress's  wish,  had  only  permitted  it 
under  growling  protest.  But,  emerging  by  little  and 
little    from    the    ante-room,  whither   he  had   retired   in 


i06  DOMBET  AND  SON 

dudgeon,  he  soon  appeared  to  comprehend,  that  with  the 
most  amiable  intentions  he  had  made  one  of  those  ms»> 
takes  which  will  occasionally  arise  in  the  best-regulated 
dogs'  minds ;  as  a  friendly  apology  for  wliich  he  stuck 
himself  up  on  end  between  the  two,  in  a  very  hot  place 
in  front  of  the  fire,  and  sat  panting  at  it,  with  his  tongue 
out,  and  a  most  imbecile  expression  of  countenance,  lis- 
tening to  the  conversation. 

It  turned,  at  first,  on  Florence's  books  and  favorite 
pursuits,  and  on  the  manner  in  which  she  had  beguiled 
the  interval  since  the  marriage.  The  last  theme  opened 
up  to  her  a  subject  which  lay  very  near  her  heart,  and 
Bhe  said,  with  the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes: 

"  Oh,  mama !  I  have  had  a  great  sorrow  since  that 
day." 

**  You  a  great  sorrow,  Florence ! " 

"  Yes.     Poor  Walter  is  drowned." 

Florence  spread  her  hands  before  her  faCe,  and  wept 
with  all  her  heart  Many  as  were  the  secret  tears  which 
Walter's  fate  had  cost  her,  they  flowed  yet,  when  she 
thought  or  spoke  of  him. 

"  But  tell  me,  dear,"  said  Edith,  soothing  her.  "  Who 
was  Walter  ?     What  was  he  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  was  my  brother,  mama.  After  dear  Paul  died, 
we  said  we  would  be  brother  and  sister.  I  had  known 
him  a  long  time  —  from  a  little  child.  He  knew  Paul, 
^lio  liked  him  very  much ;  Paul  said,  almost  at  the  last, 
'  Take  care  of  Walter,  dear  papa  !  I  was  fond  of  him  ! 
Walter  had  been  brought  in  to  see  him,  and  was  there 
then  —  in  this  room." 

"  And  did  he  take  care  of  Walter  ?  "  inquired  Edith, 
sternly. 

^  Papa  ?     He  appointed  him  to  go  abroad.     He  was 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  lOT 

drowned  in  shipwreck  on  his  voyage,"  said  Florence, 
sobbing. 

"  Does  he  know  that  he  is  dead  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  mama.  I  have  no  means  of  knowing. 
Dear  mama ! "  cried  Florence,  clinging  to  her  as  for 
lielp,  and  hiding  her  face  upon  her  bosom,  "  I  know  that 
you  have  seen  "  — 

*'  Stay  !  Stop,  Florence,"  Edith  turned  so  pale,  and 
spoke  so  earnestly,  that  Florence  did  not  need  her  re- 
straining hand  upon  her  lips.  "  Tell  me  all  about  Wal- 
ter first ;  let  me  understand  this  history  all  through." 

Florence  related  it,  and  everything  belonging  to  it, 
even  down  to  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Toots,  of  whom  she 
could  hardly  speak  in  her  distress  without  a  tearful  smile, 
although  she  was  deeply  grateful  to  him.  When  she  bad 
concluded  her  account,  to  the  whole  of  which  Edith, 
holding  her  hand,  listened  with  close  attention,  and  when 
a  silence  haff  succeeded,  Edith  said  : 

"  What  is  it  that  you  know  I  have  seen,  Florence  ?  " 

•*  That  I  am  not,"  said  Florence,  with  the  same  mute 
appeal,  and  the  same  quick  concealment  of  her  face  as 
before,  "  that  I  am  not  a  favorite  child,  mama.  I  never 
have  been.  I  have  never  known  how  to  be.  I  have 
missed  the  way,  and  had  no  one  to  show  it  to  me.  Oh, 
let  me  leara  from  you,  how  to  become  dearer  to  papa. 
Teach  me  !  you,  who  can  so  well !  "  and  clinging  closer 
to  her,  with  some  broken  fervent  words  of  gratitude  and 
endearment,  Florence,  relieved  of  her  sad  secret,  wept 
long,  but  not  as  painfully  as  of  yore,  within  the  encircling 
arms  of  her  new  mother. 

Pale,  even  to  her  lips,  and  with  a  face  that  strove  for 
•X)m[wsare  until  its  proud  beauty  was  as  fixed  as  death, 
Edith    looked    down   UiK>n   the  weeping  girl,  and  onfV 


108  DOMBEY  Am)  SON. 

kissed  her.  Then  gradually  disengaging  herself,  and 
putting  Florence  away,  she  said,  stately  and  quiet,  as  a 
marble  image,  and  in  a  voice  that  deepened  as  she  spoke, 
but  had  no  other  token  of  emotion  in  it : 

"  Florence,  you  do  not  know  me  !  Heaven  forbid  that 
jou  should  learn  from  me  !  " 

"  Not  Isarn  from  you  ? "  repeated  Florence,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  That  I  should  teach  you  how  to  love,  or  be  loved, 
Heaven  forbid  !  "  said  Edith.  "  If  you  could  teach  me, 
that  were  better ;  but  it  is  too  late.  You  are  dear  to 
me,  Florence.  I  did  not  think  that  anything  could  ever 
be  so  dear  to  me,  as  you  are  in  this  little  time." 

She  saw  that  Florence  would  have  spoken  here,  so 
checked  her  with  her  hand,  and  went  on. 

"  I  will  be  your  true  friend  always.  I  will  cherish 
you  as  much,  if  not  as  well  as  any  one  in  this  world 
could.  You  may  trust  in  me  —  I  know  it  ^nd  I  say  it, 
dear,  —  with  the  whole  confidence  even  of  your  pure 
heart.  There  are  hosts  of  women  whom  he  might  have 
married,  better  and  truer  in  all  other  respects  than  I  am, 
Florence ;  but  there  is  not  one  who  could  come  here, 
his  wife,  whose  heart  could  beat  with  greater  truth  to 
you  than  mine  does." 

"  I  know  it,  dear  mama  !  "  cried  Florence.  "  From 
that  first  most  happy  day  I  have  known  it." 

"  Most  happy  day ! "  Edith  seemed  to  repeat  the 
words  involuntarily,  and  went  on.  "Though  the  merit, 
is  not  mine,  for  I  thought  little  of  you  until  I  saw  yoa, 
let  the  undes3rved  reward  be  mine  in  your  trust  and 
love.  And  in  this  —  in  this,  Florence ;  on  the  first 
night  of  my  taking  up  my  abode  here ;  I  am  led  on  as 
it  is  best  I  should  be,  to  say  it  for  the  first  and  las( 
time." 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  109 

Florence,  without  knowing  why,  felt  almost  afraid  to 
hear  her  proceed,  but  kept  her  eyes  riveted  on  the  bejia- 
tiful  face  so  fixed  upon  her  own. 

"  Never  seek  to  find  in  me,"  said  Edith,  laying  her 
band  upon  her  breast,  "  what  is  not  here.  Never  if  70a 
can  help  it,  Florence,  fall  off  from  me  because  it  is  not 
here.  Little  by  little  you  will  know  me  better,  and  the 
time  will  come  when  you  will  know  me,  as  I  know  my- 
self. Then,  be  as  lenient  to  me  as  you  can,  and  do  not 
turn  to  bitterness  the  only  sweet  remembrance  I  ehall 
have." 

The  tears  that  were  visible  in  her  eyes  as  she  kept 
them  fixed  on  Florence,  showed  that  the  composed  face 
Was  but  as  a  handsome  mask ;  but  she  preserved  it,  and 
continued  : 

"  I  have  seen  what  you  say,  and  know  how  true  it  is. 
But  believe  me  —  you  will  soon,  if  you  cannot  now  — 
there  is  no  one  on  this  earth  less  qualified  to  set  it  right 
01-  help  you,  Florence,  than  I.  Never  ask  me  why,  or 
speak  to  me  about  it  or  of  my  husband,  more.  There 
should  be,  so  far,  a  division,  and  a  silence  between  us 
two,  like  the  grave  itself." 

She  sat  for  some  time  silent ;  Florence  scarcely  ven- 
turing to  breathe  meanwhile,  as  dim  and  imperfect  shad- 
ows of  the  truth,  and  all  its  daily  consequences,  chased 
each  other  through  her  terrified,  yet  incredulous  imagi- 
nation. Almost  as  soon  as  she  had  ceased  to  speak, 
Edith's  face  began  to  subside  from  its  set  composure  to 
that  quieter  and  more  relenting  aspect,  which  it  usually 
wore  when  she  and  Florence  were  alone  together.  She 
shaded  it,  after  this  change,  with  her  hands ;  and  when 
she  arose,  and  with  an  affectionate  embrace  bade  Flor- 
ence good-night,  W3nt  quickly,  and  without  looking 
^und. 


110  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

But  when  Florence  was  in  bed,  and  the  room  waa 
dark  except  for  the  glow  of  the  fire,  Edith  returned,  and 
eaying  that  she  could  not  sleep,  and  that  her  dressing- 
room  was  lonely,  drew  a  chair  upon  the  hearth,  and 
watched  the  embers  as  they  died  away.  Florence 
watched  them  too  from  her  bed,  until  they,  and  the 
noble  figure  before  them,  crowned  with  its  flowing  hair, 
and  in  its  thoughtful  eyes  reflecting  back  their  light,  be- 
came confused  and  indistinct,  and  finally  were  lost  io 
slumber. 

In  her  sleep,  however,  Florence  could  not  lose  an  un- 
defined impression  of  what  had  so  recently  passed.  It 
formed  the  subject  of  her  dreams,  and  haunted  her ;  now 
in  one  shape,  now  in  another ;  but  always  oppressively ; 
and  with  a  sense  of  fear.  She  dreamed  of  seeking  her 
father  in  wildernesses,  of  following  his  track  up  fearful 
lieights,  and  down  into  deep  mines  and  caverns ;  of  being 
charged  with  something  that  would  release  him  from 
erxtraordinary  suffering  —  she  knew  not  what,  or  why  — 
yet  never  being  able  to  attain  the  goal  and  set  him  free. 
Then  she  saw  him  dead,  upon  that  very  bed,  and  in  that 
very  room,  and  knew  that  he  had  never  loved  her  to  the 
last,  and  fell  upon  his  cold  breast,  passionately  weeping. 
Then  a  prospect  opened,  and  a  river  flowed,  and  a  plain- 
live  voice  she  knew,  cried,  "  It  is  running  on,  Floy  !  It 
has  never  stopped  !  You  are  moving  with  it !  "  And 
she  saw  him  at  a  distance  stretching  out  his  arms  towards 
her,  while  a  figure  such  as  Walter's  used  to  be,  stood 
near  him,  awfully  serene  and  still.  In  every  vision, 
Kdith  came  and  went,  sometimes  to  her  joy,  sometimes 
to  hor  sorrow,  until  they  were  alone  upon  the  brink  of  a 
dark  grave,  and  Edith  pointing  down,  she  looked  and 
law  —  what  I  —  another  Edith  lying  at  the  bottom. 


DOMBFT   ANT>  SON.  1  1  I 

In  the  terror  of  this  dream,  she  cried  out,  and  awoke 
the  thought.  A  soft- voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  her  ear 
"  Floi-ence,  dear  Florence,  it  is  nothing  but  a  dream ! 
and  stretching  out  her  arms,  she  returned  the  caress  ol 
her  new  mama,  who  then  went  out  at  the  door  in  the 
light  of  the  gray  morning.  In  a  moment,  Florence  sat 
up  wondering  whether  this  had  really  taken  place  or 
not ;  but  she  was  only  certain  that  it  was  gray  morning 
indeed,  and  that  the  blackened  ashes  of  the  fire  were  on 
the  hearth,  and  that  she  was  alone. 

So  passed  the  night  on  which  the  happy  pair  cftme 
home. 


ll'i  DOMBKY    AND  SUM. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 


HOU8E-WARMINO. 


Mant  succeeding  days  passed  in  like  manner ;  ex« 
wjpt  that  there  were  numerous  visits  received  and  paid, 
and  that  Mrs.  Skewton  held  little  levees  in  her  own 
apartments,  at  which  Major  Bagstock  was  a  frequent 
attendant,  and  that  Florence  encountered  no  second  look 
from  her  father,  although  she  saw  him  every  day.  Nor 
had  she  much  communication  in  words,  with  her  new 
mama,  who  was  imperious  and  proud  to  all  the  house  but 
her  —  Florence  could  not  but  observe  that  —  and  who, 
although  she  always  sent"  for  her  or  went  to  her  when 
she  came  home  from  visiting,  and  would  always  go  into 
her  room  at  night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  however  late 
the  hour,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  being  with 
her,  was  often  her  silent  and  thoughtful  companion  for  a 
long  time  together. 

Florence,  who  had  hoped  for  so  much  from  this  mar- 
riage, could  not  help  sometimes  comparing  the  bright 
house  with  the  faded  dreary  place  out  of  which  it  had 
ai  isen,  and  wondering  when,  in  any  shape,  it  would  begin 
to  be  a  home  ;  for  that  it  was  no  home  then,  for  any 
■>ne,  though  everything  went  on  luxuriously  and  regu- 
larly, she  had  always  a  secret  misgiving.  Many  an  hour 
nf  sorrowful  reflection  by  day  and  night,  and  many  a 
tear  of  blighted  hope,  Florence  bestowed  upon  the  as- 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  113 

surance  her  new  mama  had  given  her  so  strongly,  that 
there  was  no  one  on  the  earth  more  powerless  than  her- 
Belf  to  teach  her  how  to  win  her  father's  heart.  And 
soon  Florence  began  to  think  —  resolved  to  think  would 
be  the  truer  phrase —  that  as  no  one  knew  so  well,  hew 
hopeless  of  being  subdued  or  changed  her  father's  cold- 
ness to  her  was,  so^he  had  given  her  this  warning,  and 
forbidden  the  subject  in  very  compassion.  Unselfish 
here,  as  in  her  every  act  and  fancy,  Florence  preferred 
to  bear  the  pain  of  this  new  wound,  rather  than  en- 
courage any  faint  foreshadowings  of  the  truth  as  it  con- 
cerned her  father ;  tender  of  him,  even  in  her  wander- 
ing thoughts.  As  for  his  home,  she  hoped  it  would 
become  a  better  one,  when  its  state  of  noveltj'  and 
transition  should  be  over:  and  for  herself,  thought  little, 
and  lamented  less. 

If  none  of  the  new  family  were  particularly  at  home 
in  private,  it  was  resolved  that  Mrs.  Dombey  at  least 
should  be  at  home  in  public,  without  delay.  A  series 
of  entertainments  in  celebration  of  the  late  nuptials,  and 
in  cultivation  of  society,  were  arranged  chiefly  by  Mr. 
Dombey  and  Mrs.  Skewton ;  and  it  was  settled  that  the 
festive  proceedings  should  commence  by  Mrs.  Dombey 's 
being  at  home  upon  a  certain  evening,  and  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dombey's  requesting  the  honor  of  the  company  of 
a  great  many  incongruous  people  to  dinner  on  the  same 
day. 

Accordingly  Mr.  Dombey  produced  a  list  of  sundry 
(eastern  magnates  who  were,  to  be  bidden  to  this  feast 
im  his  behalf;  to  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  acting  for  her 
dearest  child,  who  was  haughtily  careless  on  the  sub- 
ject, subjoined  a  western  list,  comprising  Cousin  Feenix, 
not  yet  returned  to  Baden  Baden,  greally  to  the  <letri- 
VOL.  in.  8 


114  DOMBEY   IND  SON. 

ment  of  his  personal  estate ;  and  a  variety  of  moths  of 
various  degrees  and  ages,  who  had,  at  various  times, 
fluttered  round  the  light  of  her  fair  daughter,  or  her- 
self, without  any  lasting  injury  to  their  wings.  Florence 
was  enrolled  as  a  member  of  Ihe  dinner-party,  by  Edith's 
command  —  elicited  by  a  moment's  doubt  and  hesitation 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  and  Florence,  with  a 
wondering  heart,  and  with  a  quick  instinctive  sense  of 
everything  that  grated  on  her  father  in  the  least,  took 
her  silent  share  in  the  proceedings  of  the  day. 

The  proceedings  commenced  by  Mr.  Dombey,  in  a 
cravat  of  extraordinary  height  and  stiffness,  walking  rest- 
lessly about  the  drawing-room  until  the  hour  appointed 
for  dinner ;  punctual  to  which,  an  East  India  Director, 
of  immense  wealth,  in  a  waistcoat  apparently  constructed 
in  serviceable  deal  by  some  plain  carpenter,  but  really 
engendered  in  the  tailor's  art,  and  composed  of  the  ma- 
terial called  nankeen,  arrived,  and  was  received  by  Mr. 
Dombey  alone.  The  next  stage  of  the  proceedings  was 
Mr.  Dombey  sending  his  compliments  to  Mrs.  Dombey, 
with  a  correct  statement  of  the  time  ;  and  the  next,  the 
East  India  Director's  falling  prostrate,  in  a  conversa- 
tional point  of  view,  and  as  Mr.  Dombey  was  not  the 
man  to  pick  him  up,  staring  at  the  fire  until  rescue 
appeared  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Skewton ;  whom  the 
Director,  as  a  pleasant  start  in  life  for  the  evening, 
mistook  for  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  greeted  with  enthu- 
siasm. 

The  next  arrival  was  a  Bank  Director,  reputed  to  be 
able  to  buy  up  anything  —  human  Nature  generally,  if 
he  should  take  it  in  his  head  to  influence  the  money 
market  in  that  direction  —  but  who  was  a  wonderfully 
modest-spoken  man,  almost  boastfully  so,  and  mentioned 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  115 

liis  "litlle  place"  at  Kingston-upon-Thames,  and  its  just 
being  barely  equal  to  giving  Dombey  a  bed  and  a  chop, 
ii  he  would  come  and  visit  it.  Ladies,  he  said,  it  was 
not  for  a  man  who  lived  in  his  quiet  way  to  take  upon 
himself  to  invite  —  but  if  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her 
daughter,  Mrs.  Dombey,  should  ever  find  themselves  ir 
that  direction,  and  would  do  him  the  honor  to  look  at  a 
little  bit  of  a  shrubbery  they  would  find  there,  and  a 
poor  little  flower-bed  or  so,  and  a  humble  apology  for  a 
pinery,  and  two  or  three  little  attempts  of  that  sort  with- 
out any  pretension,  they  would  distinguish  him  very 
much.  Carrying  out  his  character,  this  gentleman  was 
very  plainly  dressed,  in  a  wisp  of  cambric  for  a  neck- 
cloth, big  shoes,  a  coat  that  was  too  loose  for  him,  and  a 
pair  of  trousers  that  were  too  spare ;  and  mention  being 
made  of  the  Opera  by  Mi-s.  Skewton,  he  said  he  very 
seldom  went  there,  for  he  couldn't  afford  it.  It  seemed 
greatly  to  delight  and  exhilarate  hira  to  say  so ;  and  he 
beamed  on  his  audience  afterwards,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  excessive  satisfaction  twinkling  in  his  eyes. 

Now  Mrs.  Dombey  appeared,  beautiful  and  proud, 
and  as  disdainful  and  defiant  of  them  all  as  if  the  bridal 
wreath  upon  her  head  had  been  a  garland  of  steel  spikes 
put  on  to  force  concession  from  her  which  she  would  die 
sooner  than  yield.  With  her  was  Florence.  When 
they  entered  together,  the  shadow  of  the  night  of  the 
return  again  darkened  Mr.  Dombey's  face.  But  unob- 
served :  for  Florence  did  not  venture  to  raise  her  eyes 
to  his,  and  Edith's  indifference  was  too  supreme  to  take 
the  least  heed  of  him. 

The  arrivals  quickly  became  numerous.  More  direc- 
tors, chairmen  of  public  companies,  elderly  ladies  carry- 
ing burdens  on  their  heads  for  full  dress,  Cousin  Feenix, 


116  DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 

Major  Bagstook,  friends  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  the  eame 
bright  bloom  on  their  complexion,  and  very  precioii8 
necklaces  on  very  withered  necks.  Among  these,  a 
young  lady  of  sixty-five,  remarkably  coolly  dressed  as  to 
her  back  and  shoulders,  who  spoke  with  an  engaging 
lisp,  and  whose  eyelids  wouldn't  keep  up  well,  without  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  on  her  part,  and  whose  manners 
had  that  indefinable  charm  which  so  frequently  attaches 
to  the  giddiness  of  youth.  As  the  greater  part  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  list  were  disposed  to  be  taciturn,  and  the 
greater  part  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  list  were  disposed  to  be 
talkative,  and  there  was  no  sympathy  between  them, 
Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  by  magnetic  agreement,  entered 
into  a  bond  of  union  against  Mr.  Dombey's  list,  who, 
wandering  about  the  rooms  in  a  desolate  manner,  or 
seeking  refuge  in  corners,  entangled  themselves  with 
company  coming  in,  and  became  barricaded  behind  scfas, 
and  had  doors  opened  smartly  from  without  against  their 
heads,  and  underwent  every  sort  of  discomfiture. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Mr.  Dombey  took  down 
an  old  lady  like  a  crimson  velvet  pincushion  stuffed  with 
bank-notes,  who  might  have  been  the  identical  old  lady 
of  Threadneedle-street,  she  was  so  rich,  &nd  looked  so 
unaccommodating ;  Cousin  Feenix  took  down  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey ;  Major  Bagstock  took  down  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  th< 
young  thing  with  the  shoulders  was  bestowed,  as  an  ex- 
tinguisher, upon  the  East  India  Director ;  and  the  re* 
maining  ladies  were  left  on  view  in  the  drawing-room 
by  the  remaining  gentlemen,  until  a  forlorn  hope  volun- 
teered to  conduct  them  down-stairs,  and  those  brave 
«pirits  with  their  captives  blocked  up  the  dining-room 
door,  shutting  out  seven  mild  men  in  the  stony-hearted 
aall.     When  all  the  rest  were  got  in  and  were  seated^ 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  117 

one  of  thefce  mild  men  still  appeared,  in  smiling  con- 
fusion, totally  destitute,  and  unprovided  for,  and,  escorted 
by  the  butler,  made  the  complete  circuit  of  the  table 
twice  before  his  chair  could  be  found,  which  it  finally 
was.  on  Mi-s.  Dombey's  left  hand ;  after  which  the  mild 
ojan  never  held  up  his  head  again. 

Now,  the  spacious  dining-room,  with  the  company 
seated  round  the  glittering  table,  busy  with  their  glitter 
ing  spoons,  and  knives  and  forks,  and  plates,  might  have 
been  taken  for  a  grown-up  exposition  of  Tom  Tiddler's 
ground,  where  children  pick  up  gold  and  silver.  Mr, 
Dombey,  as  Tiddler,  looked  his  character  to  admiration  j 
and  the  long  plateau  of  precious  metal  fronted,  separat- 
ing him  from  Mrs.  Dombey,  whereon  frosted  Cupids 
offered  scentless  flowers  to  each  of  them,  was  allegorical 
to  see. 

Cousin  Feenix  was  in  great  force,  and  looked  aston- 
ishingly young.  But  he  was  sometimes  thoughtless  in 
his  good  humor  —  his  memory  occasionally  wandering 
like  his  legs  —  and  on  this  occasion  caused  the  company 
to  shudder.  It  happened  thus.  The  young  lady  with 
the  back,  who  regarded  Cousin  Feenix  with  sentiments 
of  tenderness,  had  entrapped  the  East  India  Director 
into  leading  her  to  the  chair  next  him  :  in  return  for 
which  good  office  she  immediately  abandoned  the  Di- 
rector who,  being  shaded  on  the  other  side  by  a  gloomy 
black  velvet  hat  surmounting  a  bony  and  speechless 
female  with  a  fan,  yielded  to  a  depression  of  spirits  and 
withdrew  into  himself.  Cousin  Feenix  and  the  young 
lady  were  very  lively  and  humorous,  and  the  young  lady 
laughed  so  much  at  something  Cousin  Feenix  related  to 
her,  that  Major  Bagstock  begged  leave  to  inquire  op 
behalf  of  Mrs.  Skewton  (they  were  sitting  opposite,  a 


118  DOMBEY  AND   SOW. 

little  lower  down),  whether  that  might  not  be  coii»idered 
public  property. 

"Why,  upon  my  life,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "there's 
nothing  in  it ;  it  really  is  not  worth  repeating ;  in  point 
of  fact,  it's  merely  an  anecdote  of  Jack  Adams.  I  dart 
say  my  friend  Dombey ; "  for  the  general  attenlioc  waa 
concentrated  on  Cousin  Feenix  ;  "  may  remember  Jack 
Adams,  Jack  Adams,  not  Joep  that  was  his  brother. 
Jack  —  little  Jack  —  man  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  a 
elight  impediment  in  his  speech  —  man  who  sat  for  some- 
body's borough.  We  used  to  call  him  in  my  parliamen- 
tary time  W.  P.  Adams,  in  consequence  of  his  being 
Warming  Pan  for  a  young  fellow  who  was  in  his  minor- 
ity. Perhaps  my  friend  Dombey  may  have  known  the 
man?" 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  as  likely  to  have  known  Guy 
Fawkes,  replied  in  the  negative.  But  one  of  the  seven 
mild  men  unexpectedly  leaped  into  distinction,  by  saying 
he  had  known  him,  and  adding,  —  "  always  wore  Hessian 
boots !  "• 

"  Exactly,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  bending  forward  to 
see  the  mild  man,  and  smile  encouragement  at  him  down 
the  table.     "  That  was  Jack-.     Joe  wore  "  — 

"  Tops  !  "  cried  the  mild  man,  rising  in  public  eetima* 
tion  every  instant. 

"  (?/* course,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "you  were  intimate 
with  'em  ?  " 

*♦  I  knew  them  both,"  said  the  mild  man.  With  wh<xn 
Mr.  Dombey  immediately  took  wine. 

"  Devilish  good  fellow,  Jack  ?  "  said  Cousin  Feenix, 
again  bending  forward,  and  smiling. 

"  Excellent,"  returned  the  mild  man,  becoming  bold 
DO  his  success.     "  One  of  the  best  fellows  I  ever  knew.* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  M'a 

•♦  No  doubt  you  have  heard  the  story  ?  "  said  CousiP 
Fee  nix. 

"  I  shall  know,"  replied  the  bold  mild  roan,  "  when  I 
have  heard  your  Ludship  tell  it."  "With  that,  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  smiled  at  the  ceiling,  as  knowing  it 
by  heart,  and  being  already  tickled. 

"  In  point  of  fact,  it's  nothing  of  a  story  in  itself,"  saiJ 
Cousin  Feenix,  addressing  the  table  with  a  smile,  and  a 
gay  shake  of  his  head,  "  and  not  worth  a  word  of  preface. 
But  it's  illustrative  of  the  neatness  of  Jack's  humor. 
The  fact  is,  that  Jack  was  invited  down  to  a  marriage  — 
which  I  think  took  place  in  Barkshire  ?  " 

"  Shropshire,"  said  the  bold  mild  man,  finding  himself 
appealed  to. 

"  Was  it  ?  well !  In  point  of  fact  it  might  have  been 
in  any  shire,"  said  Cousin  Feenix.  '^So,  my  friend 
being  invited  down  to  this  marriage  in  Anyshire,"  with  a 
pleasant  sense  of  the  readiness  of  this  joke,  "  goes.  Just 
as  some  of  us  having  had  the  honor  of  being  invited  to 
the  marriage  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
with  my  friend  Dombey,  didn't  require  to  be  asked  twice, 
and  were  devilish  glad  to  be  present  on  so  interesting  an 
occasion.  —  Goes  —  Jack  goes.  Now,  this  marriage 
was,  in  point  of  fact,  the  marriage  of  an  uncommonly 
fine  girl  with  a  man  for  whom  she  didn't  care  a  button, 
but  whom  she  accepted  on  account  of  his  property,  which 
was  immense.  When  Jack  returned  to  town,  after  tho 
nuptials,  a  man  he  knew,  meeting  him  in  the  lobby  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  says,  '  Well,  Jack,  how  are  ttio 
*iJl-matched  couple  ?  '  *  Ill-matched,'  says  Jack.  *  Not 
at  all.  It's  a  perfectly  fair  and  equal  transaction.  »S%« 
ts  regularly  bought,  and  you  may  take  your  oath  he  if 
"W  regularly  sold ! ' "  ,^ 


120  DOMBEY  AND  SOBT. 

In  his  full  enjoyment  of  this  culminating  point  of  hii 
Btory  tht  shudder,  which  had  gone  all  round  the  table 
[ike  an  electric  spark,  struck  Cousin  Feenix,  and  he 
stopped.  Not  a  smile  occasioned  by  the  only  general 
topic  of  conversation  broached  that  day,  appeared  on  any 
face.  A  profound  silence  ensued ;  and  the  wretched 
mild  man,  who  had  been  as  innocent  of  any  real  fore- 
knowledge of  the  fctory  as  the  child  unborn,  had  the  ex- 
quisite misery  of  reading  in  every  eye  that  he  was  re- 
garded as  the  prime  mover  of  the  mischief. 

Mr.  Dombey's  face  was  not  a  changeful  one,  and  being 
cast  in  its  mould  of  state  that  day,  showed  little  other 
apprehension  of  the  story,  if  any,  than  that  which  he 
expressed  when  he  said  solemnly,  amidst  the  silence, 
that  it  was  "  Very  good."  There  was  a  rapid  glance 
from  Edith  towards  Florence,  but  otherwise  she  re- 
mained, externally,  impassive  and  unconscious. 

Through  the  various  stages  of  rich  meats  and  wines, 
continual  gold  and  silver,  dainties  of  earth,  air,  fire,  and 
water,  heaped-up  fruits,  and  that  unnecessary  article  in 
Mr.  Dombey's  banquets  —  ice  —  the  dinner  slowly  made 
its  way  ;  the  later  stages  being  achieved  to  the  sono- 
rous music  of  incessant  double  knocks,  announcing  the 
arrival  of  visitors,  whose  portion  of  the  feast  was  limited 
to  the  smell  thereof.  When  Mrs.  Dombey  rose,  it  was 
a  sight  to  see  her  lord,  with  stiff  throat,  and  erect  head, 
hold  the  door  open  for  the  withdrawal  of  the  ladies 
and  to  see  how  she  swept  past  him  with  his  daughter 
on  her  arm. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  a  grave  sight,  behind  the  decanters, 
in  a  state  of  dignity ;  and  the  East  India  Director  was 
a  forlorn  sight  near  the  unoccupied  rnd  of  the  table,  in 
$.  state  of  solitude ;  and  the  mjyor  was  a  military  sight. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  lUl 

relating  stories  of  the  Duke  of  York  to  six  of  the  seven 
mild  men  (the  ambitious  one  was  utterly  quenched)  ;  and 
the  Bank  Director  was  a  lowly  sight,  making  a  plan  of 
his  little  attempt  at  a  pinery,  with  dessert-knives,  for  a 
group  of  admii-ers ;  and  Cousin  Feenix  was  a  thought- 
ful sight,  as  he  smoothed  his  long  wristbands  and  stealth- 
ily adjusted  his  wig.  But  all  these  sights  were  of  short 
duration,  being  speedily  broken  up  by  coffee,  and  the 
desertion  of  the  room. 

There  was  a  throng  in  the  state-rooms  up-stairs,  in 
creasing  every  minute  ;  but  still  Mr.  Dombey's  list  of 
visitors  appeared  to  have  some  native  impossibility  of 
amalgamation  with  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  and  no  one  could 
have  doubted  which  was  which.  The  single  exception 
to  this  rule  perhaps  was  Mr.  Carker,  who  now  smiled 
among  the  company,  and  who,  as  he  stood  in  the  circle 
that  was  gathered  about  Mrs.  Dombey  —  watchful  of  her, 
of  them,  his  chief,  Cleopatra,  and  the  major,  Florence, 
and  everything  around  —  appeared  at  ease  with  both 
divisions  of  guests,  and  not  marked  as  exclusively  be- 
longing to  either. 

Florence  had  a  dread  of  him,  which  made  his  presence 
in  the  room  a  nightmare  to  her.  She  could  not  avoid 
the  recollection  of  it,  for  her  eyes  were  drawn  towards 
uira  every  now  and  then,  by  an  attraction  of  dislike  and 
distrust  that  she  could  not  resist.  Yet  +er  thoughts  were 
busy  with  other  things  ;  for  as  she  sat  apart  —  not  unad- 
mired  or  unsought,  but  in  the  gentleness  of  her  quiet  spirit 
— ■  slie  felt  how  little  part  her  father  had  in  what  was 
going  on,  and  saw,  with  pain,  how  ill  at  ease  he  seemed 
to  be,  and  how  little  regarded  he  was  as  he  lingered 
ibout  near  the  door,  for  those  visitors  whom  he  wished 
to  distinguish  with  particular  attention,  and   took  them 


122  DOMBET   AJn)  SOIT. 

up  to  introduce  them  to  his  wife,  who  received  them  with 
proud  coldness,  but  showed  no  interest  or  wish  to  please, 
and  never,  after  the  bare  ceremony  of  reception,  in  con* 
Bultation  of  his  wishes,  or  in  welcome  of  his  friends, 
opened  her  lips.  It  was  not  the  less  perplexing  or  pain- 
ful to  Florence,  that  she  who  acted  thus,  treated  her  so 
kindly,  and  with  such  loving  consideration,  that  it  almost 
seemed  an  ungrateful  return  on  her  part  even  to  know 
of  what  was  passing  before  her  eyes. 

Happy  Florence  would  have  been,  might  she  have 
ventured  to  bear  her  father  company,  by  so  much  as  a 
look ;  and  happy  Florence  was,  in  little  suspecting  the 
main  cause  of  his  uneasiness.  But  afraid  of  seeming  to 
know  that  he  was  placed  at  any  disadvantage,  lest  he 
should  be  resentful  of  that  knowledge ;  and  divided  be- 
tween her  impulse  towards  him,  and  her  grateful  affection 
for  Edith  ;  she  scarcely  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  towards 
either.  Anxious  and  unhappy  for  them  both,  the  thought 
stole  on  her  through  the  crowd,  that  it  might  have  been 
better  for  them  if  this  noise  of  tongues  and  tread  of  feet 
had  never  come  there,  —  if  the  old  dulness  and  decay 
had  never  been  replaced  by  novelty  and  splendor,  —  if 
the  neglected  child  had  found  no  friend  in  Edith,  but 
had  lived  her  solitary  life,  unpitied  and  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  some  such  thoughts  too,  but  they  were 
uot  so  quietly  developed  in  her  mind.  This  good  matron 
had  been  outraged  in  the  first  instance  by  not  receiv- 
ing an  invitation  to  dinner.  That  blow  partially  recov- 
ered, she  had  gone  to  a  vast  expense  to  make  such  a 
figure  before  Mrs.  Dombey  at  home,  as  should  dazzle 
the  senses  of  that  lady,  and  heap  mortification,  moun* 
tains  high,  on  the  head  of  Mrs.  Skewton. 

**But  I  am  made,"  said  Mrs.  Chick   to  Mr    Chick, 


*  DOMBEY    xND  SON,  12S 

"  of  no  more  account  than  Florence !  Who  lakes  the 
imallest  nolice  of  me  ?    No  one  !  " 

"  No  one,  my  dear,"  assented  Mr.  Chick,  who  was 
seated  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Chick  against  the  wall,  and 
could  console  himself,  even  there,  by  soTOy  whistling. 

"  Does  it  at  all  appear  as  if  I  was  wanted  here  ? " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Mr.  CliicL 

«  Paul's  mad  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Mr.  Chick  whistled. 

"  Unless  you  are  a  monster,  which  I  sometimes  think 
you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  candor,  "  don't  sit  there 
humming  tunes.  How  any  one  with  the  most  distant 
feelings  of  a  man,  can  see  that  mother-in-law  of  Paul's, 
dressed  as  she  is,  going  on  like  that,  with  Major  Bag- 
stock,  for  whom,  among  other  precious  things,  we  are 
indebted  to  your  Lucretia  Tox  "  — 

"  3Iy  Lucretia  Tox,  my  dear ! "  said  Mr.  Chick 
astounded. 

"  Yes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with  great  severity,  "pour 
Lucretia  Tox  —  I  say  how  anybody  can  see  that  mother- 
in-law  of  Paul's,  and  that  haughty  wife  of  Paul's,  and 
these  indecent  old  frights  with  their  backs  and  shoulders, 
and  in  short  this  at  home  generally,  and  hum,"  —  on 
which  word  Mrs.  Chick  laid  a  scornful  emphasis  that 
made  Mr.  Chick  start,  "  is,  I  thank  Heaven,  a  mystery 
to  me!" 

Mr.  Chick  screwed  his  mouth  into  a  form  irreconcil* 
able  with  humming  or  whistling,  and  looked  very  con- 
templative. 

"  But  I  hope  I  know  what  is  due  to  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  swelling  with  indignation,  "  though  Paul  has  for- 
gotten  what  is  due  to  me.     I  am  not  going  to  sit  here, 


124  DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 

a  member  of  this  family,  to  be  taken  no  notice  of.  I 
am  not  the  dirt  under  Mrs.  Dombey's  feet,  yet  - —  not 
qu'Ite  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  she  expected  to  become 
BO,  about  the  day  after  to-morrow.  "  And  I  shall  go.  1 
will  not  say  (whatever  I  may  think)  that  this  affair  has 
been  got  up  solely  to  degrade  and  insult  me.  I  shall 
merely  go.     I  shall  not  be  missed ! " 

Mrs.  Chick  rose  erect  with  these  words,  and  took  the 
arm  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  escorted  her  from  the  room,  after 
half  an  hour's  shady  sojourn  there.  And  it  is  due  to 
her  penetration  to  observe  that  she  certainly  was  not 
missed  at  all. 

But  she  was  not  the  only  indignant  guest  ;  for  Mr. 
Dombey's  list  (still  constantly  in  difficulties)  were,  as  a 
body,  indignant  with  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  for  looking  at 
them  through  eye-glasses,  and  audibly  wondering  who  all 
those  people  were ;  while  Mrs.  Dombey's  list  complained 
of  weariness,  and  the  young  thing  with  the  shoulder?, 
deprived  of  the  attentions  of  that  gay  youth  Cousin 
Feenix  (who  went  away  from  the  dinner-table),  con- 
fidentially alleged  to  thirty  or  forty  friends  that  she  was 
bored  to  death.  All  the  old  ladies  with  the  burdens 
on  their  heads,  had  greater  or  less  cause  of  complaint 
against  Mrs.  Dombey ;  and  the  directors  and  chairmen 
coincided  in  thinking  that  if  Dombey  must  marry,  he 
had  better  have  married  somebody  nearer  his  own  age, 
not  quite  so  handsome,  and  a  little  better  off.  The  gen- 
eral opinion  among  this  class  of  gentlemen  was,  that  it 
was  a  weak  thing  in  Dombey,  and  he'd  live  to  repent 
it.  Hardly  anybody  there,  except  the  mild  men,  stayed, 
ar  went  away,  without  considering  himself  or  herself 
neglected  and  aggrieved  by  Mr.  Dombey  or  Mrs.  Dom- 
oey ;  and  the  speechless  female  in  the  black  velvet  hat 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  125 

was  found  to  have  been  stricken  mute,  because  the  lady 
hi  the  crimson  velvet  had  been  handed  down  before  her 
The  nature  even  of  the  mild  men  got  corrupted,  either 
from  their  curdling  it  with  too  much  lemonade,  or  from 
the  general  inoculation  that  prevailed ;  and  they  made 
sarcastic  jokes  to  one  another,  and  whispered  disparage 
ment  on  stairs  and  in  by-places.  The  general  dissatis- 
faction and  discomfort  so  diffused  itself,  that  the  assem- 
bled footmen  in  the  hall  were  as  well  acquainted  with 
it  as  the  company  above.  Nay,  the  very  linkmen  outside 
got  hold  of  it,  and  compared  the  party  to  a  funeral  out 
of  mourning,  with  none  of  the  company  remembered  in 
the  will. 

At  last,  the  guests  were  all  gone,  and  the  linkmen 
too  ;  and  the  street,  crowded  so  long  with  carriages,  was 
clear ;  and  the  dying  lights  showed  no  one  in  the  rooms, 
but  Mr.  Dorabey  and  Mr.  Carker,  who  were  talking  to- 
gether apart,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  and  her  mother:  the 
former  seated  on  an  ottoman  ;  the  latter  reclining  in  the 
Cleopatra  attitude,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  her  maid.  Mr. 
Dorabey  having  finished  his  communication  to  Carker, 
the  latter  advanced  obsequiously  to  take  leave. 

"  I  trust,"  he  said,  "  that  the  fatigues  of  this  delight- 
ful evening  will  not  inconvenience  Mrs.  Dombey  to- 
morrow." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing,  "  has 
sufficiently  spared  herself  fatigue,  to  relieve  you  from 
any  anxiety  of  that  kind.  I  regret  to  say,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, that  I  could  have  wished  you  had  fatigued  your- 
Belf  a  hllle  more  on  this  occasion." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  supercilious  glance,  that  it 
seemed  not  worth  her  while  to  protract,  and  turned  awaf 
liei  eyes  without  speaking. 


126  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  am  sorry,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  that  yoa 
should  not  have  thought  it  your  duty  "  — 
She  looked  at  him  again. 

"  Your  duty,  madam,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  have 
received  my  friends  with  a  little  more  deference.  Some 
of  those  whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  slight  to-night 
in  a  very  marked  manner,  Mrs.  Dombey,  confer  a  dis- 
tinction upon  you,  I  must  tell  you,  in  any  visit  they  pay 
you." 

"  Do  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here  ? "  she 
returned,  now  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"  No  !  Carker  !  I  beg  that  you  do  not.  I  insist  that 
you  do  not,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  that  noiseless 
gentleman  in  liis  withdrawal.  "  Mr.  Carker,  madam,  as 
you  know,  possesses  my  confidence.  He  is  as  well  ac- 
quainted as  myself  with  the  subject  on  which  I  speak. 
I  beg  to  tell  you,  for  your  information,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  I  consider  these  wealthy  and  important  persons  con- 
fer a  distinction  upon  me  :  "  and  Mr.  Dombey  drew  hira- 
Bclf  up,  as  having  now  rendered  them  of  the  highest 
possible  importance. 

"  I  ask  you,"  she  repeated,  bending  her  disdainful, 
steady  gaze  upon  him,  "  do  you  know  that  there  is  some 
one  here,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  must  entreat,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  stepping  forward, 
"I  must  beg,  I  must  demand,  to  be  released.  Slight  and 
unimportant  as  this  difference  is  "  — 

Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  been  intent  upon  her  daiigh* 
ten's  face,  took  him  up  here. 

"  My   sweetest    Edith,"   she    said,    "  and   my  dearep* 
Dombey ;  our  excellent  friend  Mr.  Carker,  for  so  I  a* 
Bure  I  ought  to  mention  him  "  — 

Mr.  Carker  murmured,  "  Too  much  honor.** 


UOxMBEY  AND  SON.  127 

—  "  has  used  the  very  words  that  were  in  my  mind, 
and  that  T  have  been  dying,  these  ages,  for  an  oppor 
tunity  of  introducing.  Slight  and  unimportant !  My 
Bweete.st  Edith,  and  ray  dearest  Dombey,  do  we  not 
know  that  any  difference  between  you  two  —  No,  Flow- 
ers ;  not  now." 

Flowers  was  the  maid,  who,  finding  gentlemen  present, 
rtitreated  with  precipitation. 

"That  any  difference  between  you  two,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Skewton,  "  with  the  heart  you  possess  in  common,  and 
the  excessively  charming  bond  of  feeling  that  there  is 
between  you,  must  be  slight  and  unimportant?  What 
words  could  better  define  the  fact  ?  None.  Therefore 
I  am  glad  to  take  this  slight  occasion  —  this  trifling 
occasion,  that  is  so  replete  with  Nature,  and  your  indi- 
vidual characters,  and  all  that  —  so  truly  calculated  to 
bring  the  tears  into  a  parent's  eyes  —  to  say  that  I 
attach  no  importance  to  them  in  the  least,  except  as 
developing  these  minor  elements  of  Soul ;  and  that,  un- 
like most  mamas-in-law  (that  odious  phrase,  dear  Dom- 
bey ! )  as  they  have  been  represented  to  me  to  exist  in 
this  I  fear  too  artificial  world,  I  never  shall  attempt  to 
interpose  between  you,  at  such  a  time,  and  never  can 
much  regret,  after  all,  such  little  flashes  of  the  torch  of 
What's-his-name  —  not  Cupid,  but  the  other  delightful 
creature." 

There  was  a  sharpness  in  the  good  mother's  glance 
at  both  her  children  as  she  spoke,  that  may  have  been 
expressive  of  a  direct  and  well-considered  purpose  hid- 
den between  these  rambling  words.  That  purpose,  prov- 
idently to  detach  herself  in  the  beginning  from  all  the 
ciankings  of  their  chain  that  were  to  come,  and  to 
Uielter  herself   with  the  fiction  of  her  innocent   belief 


128  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

In  their  mutual  affection,  and  their  adaptation  to  each 
other. 

"  I  have  pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  his  most  stately  manner,  "  that  in  her  con- 
duct thus  early  in  our  married  life,  to  which  I  object, 
and  which,  I  request,  may  be  corrected.     Carker,"  with 

nod  of  dismissal,  "  good-night  to  you  !  " 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  to  the  imperious  form  of  the  bride, 
whose  sparkling  eye  was  fixed  upon  her  husband  ;  and 
stopping  at  Cleopatra's  couch  on  his  way  out,  raised  to 
his  lips  the  hand  she  graciously  extended  to  him,  in 
lowly  and  admiring  homage. 

If  his  handsome  wife  had  reproached  him,  or  even 
changed  countenance,  or  broken  the  silence  in  which 
she  remained,  by  one  word,  now  that  they  were  alone 
(for  Cleopatra  made  off  with  all  speed),  Mr.  Dorabey 
would  have  been  equal  to  some  assertion  of  his  case 
against  her.  But  the  intense,  unutterable,  withering 
scorn,  with  which,  afler  looking  upon  him,  she  dropped 
her  eyes  as  if  he  were  too  worthless  and  indifferent  to 
her  to  be  challenged  with  a  syllable  —  the  ineffable  dis- 
dain and  haughtiness  in  which  she  sat  before  him  —  the 
cold  inflexible  resolve  with  which  her  every  feature 
seemed  to  bear  him  down,  and  put  him  by  —  he  had 
no  resource  against ;  and  he  left  her,  with  her  whole 
overbearing  beauty  concentrated  on  despising  him. 

Was  he  coward  enough  to  watch  her,  an  hour  after- 
wards, on  the  old  well  staircase,  where  he  had  once  seen 
Florence  in  the  moonlight,  toiling  up  with  Paul  ?  Or 
was  he  in  the  dark  by  accident,  when,  looking  up,  he 
saw  her  coming,  with  a  light,  from  the  room  where  Flor- 
ence lay,  and  marked  again  the  face  so  changed,  which 
k«  could  not  subdue. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  121) 

But  it  could  never  alter  as  his  own  did.  It  never,  in 
Its  utmost  pride  and  passion,  knew  the  shadow  that  had 
fallen  on  his,  in  the  dark  corner,  on  the  night  of  the  re- 
turn ;  and  often  since ;  and  which  deepened  on  it  cow 
ss  he  looked  up. 


130  DOMBBY  AND  80H. 


CHAPTER  XXXVn. 

MOBE   WARNINGS   THAN   ONS. 

Florence,  Edith,  and  Mrs.  Skewton  were  t<^cthei 
next  day,  and  the  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  door  to 
take  them  out.  For  Cleopatra  had  her  galley  again 
now,  and  Withers,  no  longer  the  wan,  stood  upright  in 
a  pigeon-breasted  jacket  and  military  trousers,  behind 
her  wheel-less  chair  at  dinner-time,  and  butted  no  more. 
The  hair  of  Withers  was  radiant  with  pomatum,  in  these 
days  of  down,  and  he  wore  kid  gloves  and  smelt  of  the 
water  of  Cologne. 

They  were  assembled  in  Cleopatra's  room.  The  Ser- 
pent of  old  Nile  (not  to  mention  her  disrespectfully)  was 
reposing  on  her  sofa,  sipping  her  morning  chocolate  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  Flowers  the  maid  was 
fastening  on  her  youthful  cuffs  and  frills,  and  performing 
a  kind  of  private  coronation  ceremony  on  her,  with  a 
peach-colored  velvet  bonnet ;  the  artificial  roses  in  which 
nodded  to  uncommon  advantage,  as  the  palsy  trifled  with 
them,  like  a  breeze. 

"  I  think  I  am  a  little  nervous  this  morning.  Flowers," 
said  Mrs.  Skewton.     "  My  hand  quite  shakes." 

"  You  were  the  life  of  the  party  last  night,  ma'am,  you 
know,"  returned  Flowers,  "  and  you  suffer  for  it  to-day, 
you  see." 

Edith,  who  had  beckoned  Florence  to  the  window,  and 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  131 

was  looking  out,  with  her  back  turned  on  the  toilet  of 
her  esteemed  mother,  suddenly  withdrew  from  it,  as  if  it 
had  lightened. 

"  My  darling  child,"  cried  Cleopatra,  languidly,  "  you 
are  not  nervous  ?  Don't  tell  me,  my  dear  Edith,  that 
you,  so  enviably  self-possessed,  ars  beginning  to  be  a 
martyr  too,  like  your  unfortunately  constituted  mother! 
Withers,  some  one  at  the  door." 

"  Card,  ma'am,"  said  Withers,  taking  it  towards  Mrs. 
Dombey. 

"  I  am  going  out,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  it. 

"  My  dear  love,"  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  how  very 
odd  to  send  that  message  without  seeing  the  name ! 
Bring  it  here.  Withers.  Dear  me,  my  love ;  Mr. 
Carker,  too  !  that  very  sensible  person  !  " 

•*  I  am  going  out,"  repeated  Edith,  in  so  imperious  a 
tone,  that  Withers,  going  to  the  door,  imperiously  in- 
formed the  servant  who  was  waiting,  "  Mrs.  Dombey 
is  going  out.  Get  along  with  you,"  and  shut  it  on 
him. 

But  the  servant  came  back  after  a  short  absence, 
and  whispered  to  Withers  again,  who  once  more,  and 
not  very  willingly,  presented  himself  before  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Mr.  Carker  sends  his  re- 
spectful compliments,  and  begs  you  would  spare  hira 
one  minute,  if  you  could  —  for  business,  ma'am,  if  you 
please." 

"  Really,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton  in  her  mildest 
manner;  for  her  daughter's  face  was  threatening;  "if 
you  would  allow  me  to  offer  a  word,  I  should  recom- 
•lend  "  — 

"  Show  hira  this  way,"  said  Edith.     As  Withers  dis- 


132  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

appeared  to  execute  the  command,  she  added,  frowning 
on  her  mother,  "  As  he  comes  at  your  recommendation, 
let  him  come  to  your  room." 

"  May  I  —  shall  I  go  away  ?  "  asked  Florence,  hui^ 
riedly. 

Edith  nodded  yes,  but  on  her  way  to  the  door  Flor- 
ence met  the  visitor  coming  in.  With  the  same  disar- 
greeable  mixture  of  familiarity  and  forbearance  with 
which  he  had  first  addressed  her,  he  addressed  her  now 
in  his  softest  manner  —  hoped  she  was  quite  well  — 
needed  not  to  ask,  with  such  looks  to  anticipate  the  an- 
swer—  had  scarcely  had  the  honor  to  know  her,  last 
night,  she  was  so  greatly  changed  —  and  held  the  door 
open  for  her  to  pass  out ;  with  a  secret  sense  of  power 
in  her  shrinking  from  him,  that  all  the  deference  and 
politeness  of  his  manner  could  not  quite  conceal. 

He  then  bowed  himself  for  a  moment  over  Mrs. 
Skewton's  condescending  hand,  and  lastly  bowed  to 
Edith.  Coldly  returning  his  salute  without  looking  at 
him,  and  neither  seating  herself  nor  inviting  him  to  be 
seated,  she  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

Entrenched  in  her  pride  and  power,  and  with  all  the 
obduracy  of  her  spirit  summoned  about  her,  still  her 
old  conviction  that  she  and  her  mother  had  been  known 
by  this  man  in  their  worst  colors,  from  their  first  ac- 
quaintance ;  that  every  degradation  she  had  suffered  in 
her  own  eyes  was  as  plain  to  him  as  to  herself ;  that  he 
read  her  life  as  though  it  were  a  vile  book,  and  fluttered 
the  leaves  before  her  in  slight  looks  and  tones  of  voice 
which  no  one  else  could  detect ;  weakened  and  under- 
mined her.  Proudly  as  she  opposfed  herself  to  him, 
with  her  commanding  face  exacting  his  humility,  her 
disdainful  lip  repulsing  him,  her  bosom  angry  at  his  in- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  133 

Irusio!.,  and  the  dark  lashes  of  her  eye  sullenly  veiling 
iheir  light,  that  no  ray  of  it  might  shine  upon  him  — 
and  submissively  as  he  stood  before  her,  with  an  en 
treating  injured  manner,  but  with  complete  submission 
to  her  will  —  she  knew,  in  her  own  soul,  that  the  cases 
were  reversed,  and  that  the  triumph  and  superiority  were 
his,  and  that  he  knew  it  full  well. 

"  I  have  presumed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  to  solicit  an 
interview,  and  I  have  ventured  to  describe  it  as  being 
one  of  business,  because  "  — 

"  Perhaps  you  are  charged  by  Mr.  Dombey  with 
Bome  message  of  reproof,"  said  Edith.  "  You  possess 
Mr.  Dombey's  confidence  in  such  an  unusual  degree,  sir, 
that  you  would  scarcely  surprise  me  if  that  were  your 
business." 

"  I  have  no  message  to  the  lady  who  sheds  a  lustre 
upon  his  name,"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "  But  I  entreat  that 
lady,  on  my  own  behalf,  to  be  just  to  a  very  humble 
claimant  for  justice  at  her  hands  —  a  mere  dependant 
of  Mr.  Dombey's  —  which  is  a  position  of  humility ; 
and  to  reflect  upon  my  perfect  helplessness  last  night, 
and  the  impossibility  of  my  avoiding  the  share  that  was 
forced  upon  me  in  a  very  painful  occasion." 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  hinted  Cleopatra  in  a  low  voice, 
as  she  held  her  eye-glass  aside,  "  really  very  charming 
of  Mr.  What's-his-name.     And  full  of  heart !  " 

"  For  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  appealing  to  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton  with  a  look  of  grateful  deference,  —  "I  do  venture 
to  call  it  a  painful  occasion,  though  merely  because  it 
was  so  to  me,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be  present 
So  slight  a  difference,  as  between  the  principals  —  be- 
tween those  who  love  each  other  with  disinterested  de- 
votion, and  would    naake  any  sacrifice  of  self,  ic    such 


134  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

R  cause  —  is  nothing.  As  Mrs.  Skewton  lierself  ex 
pressed,  with  so  much  truth  and  feeling  last  night,  it  is 
nothing." 

Edith  could  not  look  at  him,  but  she  said  after  a  few 
moments, 

"  And  your  business,  sir  **  — 

''  Fdith,  my  pet,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  all  this  time 
Mr.  Carker  is  standing  1  My  dear  Mr.  Carker,  take  a 
seat,  I  beg." 

He  offered  no  reply  to  the  mother,  but  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  proud  daughter,  as  though  he  would  only  be  bid- 
den by  her,  and  was  resolved  to  be  bidden  by  her. 
Edith,  in  spite  of  herself,  sat  down,  and  slightly  mo- 
tioned with  her  hand  to  him  to  be  seated  too.  No  ac- 
tion could  be  colder,  haughtier,  more  insolent  in  its  air 
of  supremacy  and  disrespect,  but  she  had  struggled 
against  even  that  concession  ineffectually,  and  it  was 
wrested  from  her.  That  was  enough  I  Mr.  Carker  sal 
down. 

"  May  I  be  allowed,  madam,"  said  Carker,  turning 
his  white  teeth  on  Mrs.  Skewton  like  a  light  —  "a  lady 
of  your  excellent  sense  and  quick  feeling  will  give  me 
credit,  for  good  reason,  I  am  sure  —  to  address  what  I 
have  to  say,  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  to  leave  her  to  im- 
part it  to  you  who  are  her  best  and  dearest  friend  — 
next  to  Mr.  Dombey  ?  " 

Mrs.  Skewton  would  have  retired,  but  Edith  stopped 
her.  Edith  would  have  stopped  him  too,  and  indignantly 
ordered  him  to  speak  openly  or  not  at  all,  but  that  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice  —  "  Miss  Florence  —  the  young 
lady  who  has  just  left  the  room  "  — 

Edith  suffered  him  to  proceed.  She  looked  at  him 
BOW.     As  he  bent  forward,  to  be  nearer,  with  the  utmost 


DOMBEY  AXD  SON.  135 

show  of  delicacy  and  respect,  and  with  his  teeth  persua- 
sively arrayed,  in  a  self-depreciating  smile,  she  felt  as  i£ 
Bhe  could  have  struck  him  dead. 

"  Miss  Florence's  position,"  he  began,  "  has  been  un 
unfortunate  one.  I  have  a  difficulty  in  alluding  to  it  tc 
you,  whose  attachment  to  her  father  is  naturally  watch- 
ful and  jealous  of  every  word  that  applies  to  him." 
Always  distinct  and  soft  in  speech,  no  language  could 
describe  the  extent  of  his  distinctness  and  softness,  when 
he  said  these  words,  or  came  to  any  others  of  a  similar 
import.  *'  But,  as  one  who  is  devoted  to  Mr.  Dombey 
in  his  different  way,  and  whose  life  is  passed  in  admira- 
tion of  Mr.  Dombey's  character,  may  I  say,  without 
offence  to  your  tenderness  as  a  wife,  that  Miss  Florence 
has  unhappily  been  neglected — by  her  father.  May  I 
eay  by  her  father  ?  " 

Edith  replied,  "  I  know  it." 

"  You  know  it !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  great  ap- 
pearance of  relief.  "  It  removes  a  mountain  from  my 
breast.  May  I  hope  you  know  how  the  neglfect  origi- 
nated ;  in  what  an  amiable  phase  of  Mr.  Dombey's  pride 
—  character  I  mean  ?  " 

"  You  may  pass  that  by,  sir,"  she  returned,  "  and 
come  the  sooner  to  the  end  of  what  you  have  to  say." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  sensible,  madam,"  replied  Carker,  — 
"  trust  me,  I  am  deeply  sensible,  that  Mr.  Dombey  can 
require  no  justification  in  anything  to  you.  But,  kindly 
judge  of  my  breast  by  your  own,  and  you  will  forgive 
my  interest  in  him,  if,  in  its  excess,  it  goes  at  all 
astray." 

What  a  stab  to  her  proud  heart,  to  sit  there,  face  Ui 
face  with  him,  and  have  him  tendering  her  false  oath 
«  the  altar  again   and   again  for   her  acceptance,  and 


136  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

pressing  it  upon  her  like  the  dregs  of  a  sickening  cap 
phe  could  not  own  her  loathing  of,  or  turn  away  from  1 
How  shame,  remorse,  and  passion  raged  within  her, 
when,  upright  and  majestic  in  her  beauty  before  him, 
she  knew  that  in  her  spirit  she  was  down  at  his  feet  I 

"  Miss  Florence,"  said  Carker,  "  left  to  the  care  — 
if  one  may  call  it  care  —  of  servants  and  mercenary 
people,  in  every  way  her  inferiors,  necessarily  wanted 
some  guide  and  compass  in  her  younger  days,  and,  nat- 
urally, for  want  of  them,  has  been  indiscreet,  and  has 
in  some  degree  forgotten  her  station.  There  was  some 
folly  about  one  Walter,  a  common  lad,  who  is  fortu- 
nately dead  now :  and  some  very  undesirable  associa- 
tion, I  regret  to  say,  with  certain  coasting  sailors,  of 
anything  but  good  repute,  and  a  runaway  old  bank- 
rupt." 

"  I  have  heard  the  circumstances,  sir,"  said  Edith, 
flashing  her  disdainful  glance  upon  him,  "  and  I  know 
that  you  pervert  them.  You  may  not  know  it,  I  hope 
so." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  believe  that  no- 
body knows  them  so  well  as  I.  Your  generous  and 
aixlent  nature,  madam  —  the  same  nature  which  is  so 
nobly  imperative  in  vindication  of  your  beloved  and 
honored  husband,  and  which  has  blessed  him  as  even 
bis  merits  deserve  —  I  must  respect,  defer  to,  bow  be- 
fore. But,  as  regards  the  circumstances,  which  is  indeed 
the  business  I  presumed  to  solicit  your  attention  to,  I 
can  have  no  doubt,  since,  in  the  execution  of  my  trust 
as  Mr.  Dombey's  confidential  —  I  presume  to  say  — 
friend,  I  have  fully  ascertained  them.  In  my  execution 
of  that  trust ;  in  my  deep  concern,  which  you  can  so 
well  understand,  for  everything  relating  to  him,  inten- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  137 

gified,  if  you  will,  (for  I  fear  I  labor  under  your  di8« 
pleasure),  by  the  lower  motive  of  desire  to  prove  my 
diligence,  and  make  myself  the  more  acceptable  ;  I  have 
'ong  pursued  these  circumstances  by  myself  and  trust- 
worthy instruments,  and  have  innumerable  and  most 
minute  proofs." 

She  raised  her  eyes  no  higher  than  his  mouth,  but 
she  saw  the  means  of  mischief  vaunted  in  every  tooth  it 
contained. 

"Pardon  me,  madam,"  he  continued,  "if,  in  my  per- 
plexity, I  presume  to  take  counsel  with  you,  and  to  con- 
sult your  pleasure.  I  think  I  have  observed  that  you 
are  greatly  interested  in  Miss  Florence  ? " 

What  was  there  in  her  he  had  not  observed,  and  did 
QOt  know  ?  Humbled  and  yet  maddened  by  the  thought, 
in  every  new  presentment  of  it,  however  faint,  she 
pressed  her  teeth  upon  her  quivering  lip  to  force  com- 
posure on  it,  and  distantly  inclined  her  head  in  reply. 

"  This  interest,  madam  —  so  touching  an  evidence  of 
everything  associated  with  Mr.  Dombey  being  dear  to 
you  —  induces  me  to  pause  before  I  make  him  acquainted 
with  these  circumstances,  which,  as  yet,  he  does  not 
know.  It  so  far  shakes  me,  if  I  may  make  the  confes- 
sion, in  my  allegiance,  that  on  the  intimation  of  the  least 
desire  to  that  effect  from  you,  I  would  suppress  them." 

Edith  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  starting  back,  bent 
her  dark  glance  upon  him.  He  met  it  with  his  blandest 
and  most  deferential  smile,  and  went  on. 

"  You  say  that  as  I  describe  them,  they  are  perverted. 
I  fear  not —  I  fear  not :  but  let  us  assume  that  they  are. 
The  uneasiness  I  have  for  some  time  felt  on  the  subject, 
irises  in  this :  that  the  mere  circumstance  of  such  asso- 
ciation often  repeated,  on    the    part  of  Miss   Florence, 


138  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

however  innocently  and  confidingly,  would  be  conclusive 
with  Mr.  Dombey,  already  predisposed  against  her,  and 
would  lead  him  to  take  some  step  (I  know  he  has  occa- 
sionally contemplated  it)  of  separation  and  alienation  of 
her  from  his  home.  Madam,  bear  with  me,  and  remem- 
ber my  intercourse  with  Mr.  Dombey,  and  my  knowledge 
of  him,  and  my  reverence  for  him,  almost  from  child- 
hood, when  I  say  that  if  he  has  a  fault,  it  is  a  lofty  stub- 
bornness, rooted  in  that  noble  pride  and  sense  of  power 
which  belong  to  him,  and  which  we  must  all  defer  to ; 
which  is  not  assailable  like  the  obstinacy  of  other  char- 
acters ;  and  which  grows  upon  itself  from  day  to  day, 
and  year  to  year." 

She  bent  her  glance  upon  him  still ;  but,  look  as  stead- 
fast as  she  would,  her  haughty  nostrils  dilated,  and  her 
breath  came  somewhat  deeper,  and  her  lip-would  slightly 
curl  as  he  described  that  in  his  patron  to  which  they  must 
all  bow  down.  He  saw  it ;  and  thou^'h  his  expression 
did  not  change,  she  knew  he  saw  it. 

"  Even  so  slight  an  incident  as  last  night's,"  he  said, 
"  if  I  might  refer  to  it  once  more,  would  serve  to  illus- 
trate my  meaning,  better  than  a  greater  one.  Dombey 
and  Son  know  neither  time,  nor  place,  nor  season,  but 
bear  them  all  down.  But  I  rejoice  in  its  occurrence, 
for  it  has  opened  the  way  for  me  to  approach  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey with  this  subject  to-day,  even  if  it  has  entailed  upon 
nie  the  penalty  of  her  temporary  displeasure.  Madam, 
in  the  midst  of  my  uneasiness  and  apprehension  on  this 
subject,  I  was  summoned  by  Mr.  Dombey  to  Lejiniing- 
.on.  There  I  saw  you.  There  I  could  not  help  know- 
ing what  relation  you  would  shortly  occupy  towards  him 
—  to  his  enduring  happiness  and  yours.  There  1  re- 
solved to  await  the  time  of  your  establishment  a*  home 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  139 

here,  and  to  do  as  I  have  now  done.  I  have,  at  heart, 
no  fear  that  I  shall  be  wanting  in  my  duty  to  Mr.  Dotn- 
bey,  if  I  bury  what  I  know  in  your  breast ;  for  where 
there  is  but  one  heart  and  mind  between  two  persons  — 
as  in  such  a  marriage  —  one  almost  represents  the  other. 
I  can  acquit  my  conscience  therefore,  almost  equally,  by 
confidence,  on  such  a  theme,  in  you  or  him.  For  the 
reasons  I  have  mentioned,  I  would  select  you.  May  I 
aspire  to  the  distinction  of  believing  that  my  confidence 
is  accepted,  and  that  I  am  relieved  from  my  responsibil- 
ity ?  " 

He  long  remembered  the  look  she  gave  him  —  who 
could  see  it,  and  forget  it  ?  —  and  the  struggle  that  en- 
sued within  her.     At  last  she  said : 

"  I  accept  it,  sir.  You  will  please  to  consider  this 
matter  at  an  end,  and  that  it  goes  no  farther." 

He  bowed  low,  and  rose.  She  rose  too,  and  he  took 
leave  with  all  humility.  But  Withers,  meeting  him  on 
the  stairs,  stood  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  his  teeth,  and 
at  his  brilliant  smile  ;  and  as  he  rode  away  upon  his 
white-legged  horse,  the  people  took  him  for  a  dentist, 
pucli  was  the  dazzling  show  he  made.  The  people  took 
her,  when  she  rode  out  in  her  carriage  presently,  for  a 
great  lady,  as  happy  as  she  was  rich  and  fine.  But  they 
had  not  seen  her,  just  before,  in  her  own  room  with  no 
one  by ;  and  they  had  not  heard  her  utterance  of  the 
three  words,  "Oh  Florence,  Florence!" 

Mrs.  Skewton,  reposing  on  her  sofa,  and  sipping  her 
chocolate,  had  heard  nothing  but  the  low  word  business, 
for  which  she  had  a  mortal  aversion,  insomuch  that  she 
had  long  banished  it  from  her  vocabulary,  and  had  gone 
nigh,  in  a  charming  manner  and  with  an  immense 
amount  of  heart,  to  say  nothing  of  soul,  to  ruin  diver" 


140  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

milliners  and  others  in  consequence.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
Skewton  asked  no  questions,  and  showed  no  curiosity. 
Indeed,  the  peach-velvet  bonnet  gave  her  sufficient  occn« 
pation  out  of  doors ;  for  being  perched  on  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  the  day  being  rather  windy,  it  was  frantic 
to  escape  from  Mrs.  Skewton's  company,  and  would  be 
coaxed  into  no  sort  of  compromise.  When  the  carriage 
was  closed,  and  the  wind  shut  out,  the  palsy  played  among 
the  artificial  roses  again  like  an  alms-house  full  of  super- 
annuated zephyrs ;  and  altogether  Mrs.  Skewton  had 
enough  to  do,  and  got  on  but  indifferently. 

She  got  on  no  better  towai-ds  night ;  for  when  Mrs, 
Dorabey  in  her  dressing-room,  had  been  dressed. and 
waiting  for  lier  half  an  hour,  and  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the 
drawing-room,  had  paraded  himself  into  a  state  of  solemn 
fretfulness  (they  were  all  three  going  out  to  dinner), 
Flowers  the  maid  appeared  with  a  pale  face  to  Mrs. 
Dombey  saying : 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  beg  your  pai-don,  but  I  can't 
do  nothing  with  missis ! " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  replied  the  frightened  maid,  "  1 
hardly  know.     She's  making  faces !  " 

Edith  hurried  with  her  to  her  mothei-'s  room.  Cleo- 
patra was  arrayed  in  full  dress,  with  the  diamonds,  short- 
sleeves,  rouge,  curls,  teeth,  and  other  juvenility  all  com- 
plete; but  Paralysis  was  not  to  be  deceived,  had  known 
her  for  the  object  of  its  errand,  and  had  struck  her  at 
her  glass,  where  she  lay  like  a  horrible  doll  that  had 
tumbled  down. 

They  took  her  to  pieces  in  very  shame,  and  put  the 
little  of  her  that  was  real  on  a  bed.  Doctors  were  sent 
for,  and  soon  came.     Powerful  remedies  were  resorted 


UOMBEY  AND   SON.  141 

to ;  Opinions  given  that  she  would  rally  from  this  shocks 
but  would  not  survive  another;  and  there  she  lay 
Bpeechles>,  and  staring  at  the  ceiling,  for  days:  some- 
times making  inarticulate  sounds  in  an-^wer  to  such 
questions  as  did  she  know  who  were  present,  and  the 
like:  sometimes  giving  no  reply  either  by  sign  or  gcs- 
,  ture,  or  in  her  unwinking  eyes. 

At  length  she  began  to  recover  consciousness,  and  in 
■ome  degree  the  power  of  motion,  though  not  yet  of 
speech.  One  day  the  use  of  her  right  hand  returned ; 
and  showing  it  to  her  maid  who  was  in  attendance  on 
her,  and  appearing  very  uneasy  in  her  mind,  she  made 
signs  for  a  pencil  and  some  paper.  This  the  maid  im- 
mediately provided,  thinking  she  was  going  to  make  a 
will,  or  write  some  last  request ;  and  Mrs.  Dombey 
being  from  home,  the  maid  awaited  the  result  with 
solemn  feelings. 

After  much  painful  scrawling  and  erasing,  and  putting 
in  of  wrong  characters,  which  seemed  to  tumble  out  of 
ibe  pencil  of  their  own  accord,  the  old  woman  produced 
ibis  document : 

"  Rose-colored  curtains." 

The  maid  being  perfectly  transfixed,  and  with  tolera- 
ble reason,  Cleopatra  amended  the  manuscript  by  adding 
two  words  more,  when  it  stood  thus : 

"  Rose-colored  curtains  for  doctors." 

The  maid  now  perceived  remotely  that  she  wished 
those  articles  to  be  pror\-ided  for  the  better  presentation 
of  her  complexion  to  the  faculty  ;  and  as  those  in  the 
house  who  knew  her  best,  had  no  doubt  of  the  correct- 
ness of  this  opinion,  which  she  was  soon  able  to  estab- 
lish for  herself,  the  rose-colored  curtains  were  added  to 
her  bed,  and  she  mended  with  increased  rapidity  froro 


142  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Ihat  hour.  She  was  soon  able  to  sit  up,  in  curls  and  a 
laced  cap  and  night-gown,  and  to  have  a  little  ailificial 
bloom  dropped  into  the  hollow  caverns  of  her  cheeks. 

It  was  a  tremendous  sight  to  see  this  old  woman  in 
her  finery  leering  and  mincing  at  Death,  and  playing  off 
her  youthful  tricks  upon  him  as  if  he  had  been  the 
major;  but  an  alteration  in  her  mind  that  ensued  on  the 
paralytic  stroke  was  fraught  with  as  much  matter  for 
reflection,  and  was  quite  as  ghastly. 

Whether  the  weakening  of  her  intellect  made  her 
more  cunning  and  false  than  before,  or  whether  it  con- 
fused her  between  what  she  had  assumed  to  be  and  what 
she  really  had  been,  or  whether  it  had  awakened  any 
glimmering  of  remorse,  which  could  neither  struggle  into 
light  nor  get  back  into  total  darkness,  or  whether,  in  the 
jumble  of  her  faculties,  a  combination  of  these  effects 
had  been  shaken  up,  which  is  perhaps  the  more  likely 
supposition,  the  result  was  this :  —  That  she  became 
hugely  exact  in  respect  of  Edith's  affection  and  gratitude 
and  attention  to  her ;  highly  laudatory  of  herself  as  a 
most  inestimable  parent ;  and  very  jealous  of  having  any 
rival  in  Edith's  regard.  Further,  in  place  of  remem- 
bering that  compact  made  between  them  for  an  avoid- 
ance of  the  subject,  she  constantly  alluded  to  her  daugh- 
ter's marriage  as  a  proof  of  her  being  an  incomparable 
mother ;  and  all  this,  with  the  weakness  and  peevishness 
of  such  a  state,  always  serving  for  a  sarcastic  commen- 
tary on  her  levity  and  youthfulness. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Dombey?"  she  would  say  to  her 
maid. 

"  Gone  out,  ma'am." 

"  Gone  out !  Does  she  go  out  to  shun  her  mama 
Vlowers  ?  " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  148 

•*La  bless  you,  no  ma'ara.  Mrs.  Doml^ey  has  only 
gone  out  for  a  ride  with  Miss  Florence." 

"  Miss  Florence.  Who's  Miss  Florence  ?  Don't  tell 
me  about  Miss  Florence.  What's  Miss  Florence  to  her, 
compared  to  me  ?  " 

The  opposite  display  of  the  diamonds,  or  iho  peaeh- 
velvet  bonnet  (she  sat  in  the  bonnet  to  receive  'visitors, 
weeks  before  she  could  stir  out  of  doors),  or  the  dressing 
of  her  up  in  some  gaud  or  other,  usually  stopped  the 
tears  that  began  to  flow  hereabouts ;  and  she  would  re- 
main in  a  complacent  state  until  Edith  came  to  see  her  j 
when,  at  a  glance  of  the  proud  face,  she  would  relapse 
again. 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,  Edith ! "  she  would  cry,  shaking 
her  head. 

'  What  is  the  matter,  mother  ?  " 

"  Matter !  I  really  don't  know  what  is  the  matter. 
The  world  is  coming  to  such  an  artificial  and  ungrateful 
state,  that  I  begin  to  think  there's  no  Heart  —  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort  —  left  in  it,  positively.  Withers  is 
more  a  child  to  me  than  you  are.  He  attends  to  me 
much  more  than  my  own  daughter.  I  almost  wish  I 
didn't  look  so  young  —  and  all  that  kind  of  thing  —  and 
then  perhaps  I  should  be  more  considered." 

"  Wliat  would  you  have,  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal,  Edith,"  impatiently. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  want  that  you  have  not?  It 
5  your  own  fault  if  there  be." 

••  My  own  fault !  "  beginning  to  whimper.  "  The  par- 
ent I  have  been  to  you,  Edith  :  making  you  a  companion 
from  your  cradle  I  And  when  you  neglect  me,  and  have 
no  mtire  natural  affection  for  me  than  if  I  was  a  stran- 
ger—  not  a    twentieth   part   of  the   affection    that  ^ou 


144  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

have  for  Florence  —  but  I  am  only  your  mother  and 
sliould  corrupt  her  in  a  day!  —  you  reproach  me  with 
its  being  my  own  fault." 

"  Mother,  mother,  I  reproach  you  with  nothing.  "Why 
w  ill  yo"b  always  dwell  on  this  ?  " 

"  I>ii't  it  natural  that  I  should  dwell  on  this,  when  1 
am  all  affection  and  sensitiveness,  and  am  wounded  in 
the  cruellest  way,  whenever  you  look  at  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  wound  you,  mother.  Have  you 
no  remembrance  of  what  has  been  said  between  us  ?  Let 
tht  Past  rest." 

"  Yes,  rest !  And  let  gratitude  to  me,  rest ;  and  let 
affection  for  me,  rest ;  and  let  /aij  rest  in  my  out-of-the- 
way  room,  with  no  society  and  no  attention,  while  you 
find  new  relations  to  make  much  of,  who  have  no  earthly 
claim  upon  you !  Good  gracious,  Edith,  do  you  know 
what  an  elegant  establishment  you  are  at  the  head  of?" 

"Yes.     Hush!" 

"  And  that  gentlemanly  creature,  Dombey  ?  do  you 
know  that  you  are  married  to  him,  Edith,  and  that  you 
have  a  settlement,  and  a  position,  and  a  carriage,  and  I 
don't  know  what  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  know  it,  mother  ;  well." 

"  As  you  would  have  had  with  that  delightful,  good 
soul  —  what  did  they  call  him  ?  —  Granger  —  if  he 
hadn't  died.  And  who  have  you  to  thank  for  all  this, 
Edith  ?  " 

"  You,  mother  ;  you." 

"  Then  put  your  arms  round  my  neck,  and  kis3  me ; 
and  show  me,  Edith,  that  you  know  there  never  was  a 
better  mama  tlian  I  have  been  to  you.  And  don't  let 
inc  become  a  perfect  fright  with  teasing  and  wearing 
my^^eU  at  your  ingratitude,  or  when    I'm   out  again  in 


DOMBEF  XSD  SON.  146 

lodety,  no  soul  will  know  me,  not  even  that  hateful  ani- 
mal,  the  major." 

But,  sometimes,  when  Edith  went  nearer  to  her,  and 
bending  down  her  stately  head,  put  her  cold  cheek  to 
hers,  the  mother  would  draw  back  as  if  she  were  afraid 
of  her,  and  would  fall  into  a  fit  of  trembling,  and  cry 
out  that  there  was  a  wandering  in  her  wits.  And  some- 
times she  would  entreat  her,  with  humility,  to  sit  down 
on  the  chair  beside  her  bed,  and  would  look  at  her  (as 
she  sat  there  brooding)  with  a  face  that  even  the  rose- 
uolored  curtains  could  not  make  otherwise  than  seared 
and  wild. 

The  rose-colored  curtains  blushed,  in  course  of  time, 
on  Cleopatra's  bodily  recovery,  and  on  her  dress  —  more 
juvenile  than  ever,  to  repair  the  ravages  of  illness  — 
and  on  the  rouge,  and  on  the  teeth,  and  on  the  curls, 
and  on  the  diamonds,  and  the  short  sleeves,  and  the 
whole  wardrobe  of  the  doll  that  had  tumbled  down  be- 
fore the  mirror.  They  blushed  too,  now  and  then,  upon 
an  indistinctness  in  her  speech,  which  she  turned  off  with 
a  girlish  giggle,  and,  on  an  occasional  failing  in  her 
memory,  that  liad  no  rule  in  it,  but  came  and  went  fan- 
tastically ;  as  if  in  mockery  of  her  fantastic  self. 

But  they  never  blushed  upon  a  change  in  the  new 
manner  of  her  thought  and  speech  towards  her  daughter. 
And  though  that  daughter  often  came  within  their  in- 
fluence, they  never  blushed  upon  her  loveliness  irradi- 
ated by  a  smile,  or  softened  by  the  hght  of  filial  love,  io 
io  stern  beauty. 

roL.  m.  10 


14S  DOXBST  AMD  MHL 


CHAPTER  XXXVUL 
mssB  rox  rmsoTss  ajt  ou>  acquaixtaxcb. 

The  forlora  Miss  Tox,  abandoned  bj  hei  friend  Loo* 
isa  diick,  and  bereft  of  Mr.  Dombej's  coontenanoe  — 
for  no  d«£cafe  pair  of  wedding-cards,  united  bj  a  alref 
diread,  graced  the  dnnmej-gb^  in  Princess's-plaoe,  or 
die  haipsicJMxd,  w  an j  of  dioee  Kttle  posts  <^  display 
whidi  Locretia  reserved  for  hofiday  oocopation  —  be- 
came d^»iesed  in  ho-  ^Hiits,  and  soifered  modi  firtmi 
nudancholj.  Fw  a  time  the  Bird  Waltz  was  unheard 
in  Prinee^s-plaoe,  die  plants  were  n^;leeted,  and  dost 
eblleoted  on  die  miniature  of  Miss  Tax's  ancesbM*  with 
the  powdfied  head  and  piglaiL 

Miss  Tox,  howcTer,  was  not  of  an  i^  or  c^  a  dis- 
podbtion  long  to  abandon  hexsdf  to  unavailing  n^r^s. 
Onlj  two  not^  of  the  harpGidiiMrd  were  dumb  finm  £s- 
Bse  when  the  Bird  Wakz  again  waibled  and  ttiHed  in 
the  crooked  drawing-room ;  only  one  slip  of  geraninn 
fidi  a  victim  lo  imperfect  nursii^  before  she  was  gar- 
demng  at  her  green  lob^els  again,  r^;nlariy  every  in<»n- 
.■g;  die  powdered-headed  tateeatar  had  not  been  under 
a  doud  for  more  than  ax  wedLS,  when  Miss  Tok 
Wealhed  on  his  benignant  visage,  and  ptJished  lum  ^ 
with  a  piece  of  wasb-kather. 

Still,  Miss  Tox  was  londy,  and  at  a  loss.  Her  atladh> 
Its,  however  ladkniusly  dnwn,  w^ne  real  and  stroagi 


DOMBET  AJffD  SOS.  147 

■nd  she  was,  as  Jbe  expressed  it,  *^deeply  hurt  by  the 
unmerited  0(»itiuadlj  she  had  met  wiih  firom  LooiaL." 
Bat  there  was  no  such  thing  as  anger  in  ItHim  To^a 
eomposition.  If  she  had  ambled  on  thivMi^  life,  in  her 
soft-spoken  waj,  without  anj  opinions,  she  had,  at  least 
got  so  £ur  without  anj  harsh  |M«sgvfm«-  The  mere  «»^ 
of  Louisa  Chick  in  the  street  one  daj,  at  a  coosideiable 
distance,  so  overpowered  her  milkj  nature,  that  she  wai 
fiun  to  seek  immediate  refuge  in  a  pastij-eook's,  and 
there,  in  a  musty  littte  badk-room  nsoallj  devoted  to 
the  consumption  (rf'  soups,  and  pervaded  bj  an  ox- 
tail atmospbere,  relieve  her  feelings  bj  weeping  plenti- 
fiiUj. 

Against  Mr.  Dombey  Miss  Tox  hardly  felt  that  die 
had  any  reason  of  omnphunL  Her  sense  of  that  gen- 
tleman's magnificence  was  such,  that  once  re:moved  feom 
him,  she  felt  as  if  her  distance  always  had  been  im- 
measurable, and  as  if  he  had  greatly  condescended  in 
tolerating  her  at  alL  'No  wife  could  be  too  handsooM 
M-  too  stately  for  him,  aoeatding  to  Miss  Tox*s  sincere 
(^Hnion.  It  was  perfectly  natural  that  in  kioking  for  one, 
he  should  look  high.  Miss  Tox  with  tears  laid  down  this 
proposition,  and  faOj  admitted  it  twenty  times  a  day. 
She  never  recalled  the  lofty  manner  in  which  Mr.  Domi- 
bey  had  made  her  subsovient  to  his  oonvenienoe  and 
caprices,  and  had  graciously  permitted  her  to  be  ooa  of 
Ihe  nurses  of  his  little  son.  She  only  thought,  in  her 
OTu  w<Hds,  '*■  that  she  had  passed  a  great  many  happj 
tiours  in  that  house,  which  she  must  ever  remember  with 
{ratification,  and  that  she  could  never  cease  to  regard 
Mr.  Dombey  as  one  of  the  most  impressive  and  dig* 
•ified  of  men.** 

Cut  off*,  however,  ftom  the   inylacaMe  Louisa,  and 


148  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

being  shy  of  the  major  (whom  she  viewed  with  sonK> 
distrust  now),  Miss  Tox  found  it  very  irksome  to  kno^ 
nothing  of  what  was  going  on  in  Mr.  Dombey's  establish- 
ment. And  as  she  really  had  got  into  the  habit  of  con- 
wdering  Dorabey  and  Son  as  the  pivot  on  which  the 
world  in  general  turned,  she  resolved,  rather  than  be 
ignorant  of  intelligence  which  so  strongly  interested  her, 
to  cultivate  her  old  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Richards,  who  she 
knew,  since  her  last  memorable  appearance  before  Mr. 
Dornbey,  was  in  the  habit  of  sometimes  holding  commu- 
nication with  his  servants.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox  in  seek- 
ing out  the  Toodle  family,  had  the  tender  motive  hid- 
den in  lier  breast  of  having  somebody  to  whcm  she  could 
talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  no  matter  how  humble  that 
somebody  might  be. 

At  all  events,  towards  the  Toodle  habitation  Miss  Tox 
directed  her  steps  one  evening,  what  time  Mr.  Toodle, 
cindery  and  swart,  was  refreshing  himself  with  tea,  in 
the  bosom  of  liis  family.  Mr.  Toodle  had  only  three 
stages  of  existence.  He  was  either  taking  refreshment 
in  the  bosom  just  mentioned,  or  he  was  tearing  through 
the  country  at  from  twenty-five  to  fifty  miles  an  hour 
or  he  was  sleeping  after  his  fatigues.  He  was  always 
in  a  whirlwind  or  ^  calm,  and  a  peaceable  contented 
easy-going  man  Mr.  Toodle  was  in  either  state,  who 
eeemed  to  have  made  over  all  his  own  inheritance  of 
foming  and  fretting  to  the  engines  with  which  he  was 
connected,  which  panted,  and  gasped,  and  chafed,  and 
wore  themselves  out  in  a  most  unsparing  manner,  while 
Mr.  Toodle  led  a  mild  and  equable  life. 

"  Polly,  my  gal,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a  young  Toodle 
on  each  knee,  and  two  more  making  tea  for  him,  and 
plenty  more  scattered  about  —  Mr.  Toodle  was   never 


DOMBEY  AND  SON-  149 

out  of  chilJreii,  but  always  kept  a  good  supply  on  hand 
—  "  You   a'n't  seen  our  Biler  lately,  have  you  ^  " 

"  No,"  replied  Polly,  "  but  he's  almost  cerlam  to 
look  in  to-night.  It's  his  right  evening,  and  he's  very 
regular." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  relishing  his  meal  in- 
finitely, "  as  our  Biler  is  a-doin'  now  about  as  virell  as  a 
boy  can  do,  eh,  Polly  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  he's  a-doing  beautiful !  "  responded  Polly. 

"  He  a'n't  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like  —  has  he,  Pol- 
ly ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Toodle. 

"  No  !  "  said  Mrs.  Toodle,  plumply. 

"  I'm  glad  he  a'n't  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like,  Polly," 
observed  Mr.  Toodle  in  his  slow  and  measured  way,  and 
shovelling  in  his  bread  and  butter  with  a  clasp-knife,  as 
if  he  were  stoking  himself,  "  because  that  don't  look 
well ;  do  it,  Polly  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course  it  don't,  father.  How  can  you 
ask ! " 

"  You  see,  my  boys  and  gals,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  look- 
ing round  upon  his  family,  "  wotever  you're  up  to  in  a 
honest  wayj  it's  my  opinion  as  you  can't  do  better  than 
kje  open.  If  you  find  yourselves  in  cuttings  or  in  tun- 
nels, don't  you  play  no  secret  games.  Keep  your  whis- 
tles going,  and  let's  know  where  you  are." 

The  rising  Toodles  set  up  a  shrill  murmur,  expressive 
of  their  resolution  to  profit  by  the  paternal  advice. 

"  But  what  makes  you  say  this  along  of  Rob,  father  ?  ** 
asked  his  wife,  anxiously. 

"  Polly,  old  'ooman,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "  I  don't  know 
as  I  said  it  partickler  along  o'  Rob,  I'm  sure.  I  starts 
light  with  Rob  only ;  I  comes  to  a  branch ;  I  takes  on 
what    I    finds    there;    and  a  whole   train  of  ideas  gets 


150  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

K>upled  on  to  hira,  afore  I  knows  where  I  am,  or  where 
they  comes  from  What  a  Junction  a  man's  thoughts 
is,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "  to-be-sure  !  " 

This  profound  reflection  Mr.  Toodle  washed  down 
with  a  pint  mug  of  tea,  and  proceeded  to  solidify  with 
a  great  weight  of  bread  and  butter  ;  charging  his  young 
daughters  meanwhile,  to  keep  plenty  of  hot  water  in 
the  pot,  as  he  was  uncommon  dry,  and  should  take  the 
indeOnite  quantity  of  "  a  sight  of  mugs,"  before  his  thirst 
was  appeased. 

In  satisfying  himself,  however,  Mr.  Toodle  was  not 
regai'dless  of  the  younger  branches  about  him,  who,  al- 
though they  had  made  their  own  evening  repast,  were 
on  the  look-out  for  irregular  morsels,  as  possessing  a 
relish.  These  he  distributed  now  and  then  to  the  ex- 
pectant circle,  by  holding  out  great  wedges  of  bread  and 
butter,  to  be  bitten  at  by  the  family  in  lawful  succession, 
and  by  serving  out  small  doses  of  tea  in  like  manner 
with  a  spoon ;  which  snacks  had  such  a  relish  in  the 
mouths  of  these  young  Toodles,  that,  after  partaking  of 
the  same,  they  performed  private  dances  of  ecstasy 
among  themselves,  and  stood  on  one  leg  .apiece,  and 
hopped,  and  indulged  in  other  saltatory  tokens  of  glad- 
ness. These  vents  for  their  excitement  found,  they  grad- 
ually closed  about  Mr.  Toodle  again,  and  eyed  him  hard 
US  he  got  through  more  bread  and  butter  and  tea :  affect- 
ing, however,  to  have  no  further  expectations  of  their 
own  in  refex'ence  to  those  viands,  but  to  be  conversing  on 
foreign  subjects,  and  whispering  confidentially. 

Mr.  Toodle,  in  the  midst  of  this  family  group,  and 
letting  an  awful  example  to  his  children  in  the  way  of 
appetite,  was  ox)nveying  the  two  young  Toodles  on  his 
knees   to  Birmingham  by  special  engine,  and  was  con- 


DOMBEY  AND  SO^r.  15^ 

templatiiig  the  rest  over  a  barrier  of  bread  and  butter 
when  Rob  the  Giinder,  in  his  sou'wester  hat  and  mourn* 
ing  slops,  presented  himself,  and  was  received  with  a 
general  rush  of  brothers  and  sisters. 

"Well,  mother!"  said  Rob,  dutifully  kissing  her; 
"  how  are  you,  mother  ?  " 

"  There's  my  boy  I  "  cried  Polly,  giving  him  a  hug 
and  a  pat  on  the  back.  "Secret!  Bless  you,  fathei', 
not  he  !  " 

Tliis  was  intended  for  Mr.  Toodle's  private  edification, 
but  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  withers  were  not  unwrung. 
caught  the  words  as  they  were  spoken. 

*'  What !  father's  been  a-saying  something  more  again 
me,  has  he?"  cried  the  injured  innocent.  "Oh,  what 
a  hard  thing  it  is  that  when  a  cove  has  once  gone  a 
little  wrong,  a  cove's  own  father  should  be  always  a- 
throwing  it  in  his  face  behind  his  back  !  It's  enough," 
cried  Rob,  resorting  to  his  coat-cuff  in  anguish  of  spirit, 
"  to  make  a  cove  go  and  do  something  out  of  spite ! " 

"  My  pqor  boy  ! "  cried  Polly,  "  father  didn't  mean 
anything." 

"  If  father  didn't  mean  anything,"  blubbered  the  in- 
jured Grinder,  "  why  did  he  go  and  say  anything, 
mother?  Nobody  thinks  half  so  bad  of  me  as  my  own 
father  does.  What  a  unnatural  thing !  I  wish  some- 
body'd  take  and  chop  my  head  off.  Father  wouldn't 
mind  doing  it,  I  believe,  and  I'd  much  rather  he  did 
that  than  t'other." 

At  these  desperate  words  all  the  young  Toodles 
shrieked  ;  a  pathetic  effect,  which  the  Grinder  improved 
^y  ironically  adjuring  them  not  to  cry  for  him,  for  they 
ought  to  hate  him,  they  ought,  if  they  was  good  boya 
and  girls  ;  and  this  so  touched  the  youngest  Toodle  but 


152  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

one,  who  was  easily  moved,  that  it  touched  him  not  only 
in  his  spirit  but  in  bis  wind  too  ;  making  him  so  purple 
that  Mr.  Toodle  in  consternation  carried  him  out  to  the 
water-butt,  and  would  have  put  him  under  the  tap,  but 
for  his  being  recovered  by  the  sight  of  that  instru- 
ment. 

Matters  having  reached  this  point,  Mr.  Toodle  ex- 
plained, and  the  virtuous  feelings  of  his  son  being  there- 
by calmed,  they  shook  hands,  and  harmony  reigned 
again. 

"  Will  you  do  as  I  do,  Biler,  ray  boy  ?  "  inquired  his 
father,  returning  to  his  tea  with  new  strength. 

"No,  thank'ee,  father.  Master  and  I  had  tea  to- 
gether." 

"  And  hovv  is  master,  Rob  ?  "  said  Polly. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  mother ;  not  much  to  boast  on. 
There  a'n't  no  bis'ness  done,  you  see.  He  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  the  cap'en  don't.  There  was  a  man 
come  into  the  shop  this  very  day,  and  says  '  I  want  a  so- 
and-so,'  he  says  —  some  hard  name  or  another.  '  A 
which  ?  *  says  the  cap'en.  '  A  so-and-so,'  says  the  man. 
*  Brother,'  says  the  cap'en,  '  will  you  take  a  observation 
round  the  shop  ? '  '  Well,'  says  the  man,  '  I've  done  it.' 
'  Do  you  see  wot  you  want  ?  '  says  the  cap'en.  '  No, 
I  don't,'  says  the  man.  '  Do  you  know  it  wen  you  do 
Bee  it  ? '  says  the  cap'en.  '  No,  I  don't,'  says  the  man. 
Why,  then  I  tell  you  wot,  my  lad,'  says  the  cap'en, 
'  you'd  better  go  back  and  ask  wot  it's  like,  outside,  for 
no  more  don't  I  ! ' " 

"  That  a'n't  the  way  to  make  money,  though,  is  it  ?  " 
said  Polly. 

"  Money,  mother !  He'll  never  make  money.  He  has 
such  ways  as  I  never  see.     He  a'n't  a  bad  master  though 


DOMBEY  AND  SON  ISS 

ni  say  that  for  him.  But  that  a'n't  much  to  me,  for  I 
don't  think  I  stall  stop  with  him  long." 

"  Not  stop  in  your  place,  Rob ! "  cried  his  mother ; 
while  Mr.  Toodle  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Not  in  that  place,  p'raps,"  returned  the  Grinder, 
with  a  wink.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  —  friends  at  court 
foil  know  —  but  never  you  mind,  mother,  just  now  ; 
I'm  all  right,  that's  all." 

The  indisputable  proof  afforded  in  these  hints,  and  in 
the  Grinder's  mysterious  manner,  of  his  not  being  sub- 
ject to  that  failing  which  Mr.  Toodle  had,  by  implication, 
attributed  to  him,  might  have  led  to  a  renewal  of  his 
wrongs,  and  of  the  sensation  in  the  family,  but  for  the 
opportune  arrival  of  another  visitor,  who  to  Polly's  great 
surprise,  appeared  at  the  door,  smiling  patronage  and 
fi-iendship  on  all  there. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Richards  ?  "  said  Miss  Tox. 
"  I  have  come  to  see  you.     May  I  come  in  ?  " 

T!ie  cheery  face  of  Mrs.  Richards  shone  with  a  hos- 
pitable reply,  and  Miss  Tox,  accepting  the  proffered 
chair,  and  gracefully  recognizing  Mr.  Toodle  on  her 
way  to  it,  untied  her  bonnet-strings,  and  said  that  in  the 
first  place  she  must  beg  the  dear  children,  one  and  all, 
to  come  and  kiss  her. 

The  ill-starred  youngest  Toodle  but  one,  who  would 
appear,  from  the  frequency  of  his  domestic  troubles,  to 
have  been  born  uniler  an  unlucky  planet,  was  prevented 
from  performing  his  part  in  this  general  salutation  by 
having  lixed  the  sou'wester  hat  (with  which  he  had  been 
previously  trifling)  deep  on  his  head,  hind  side  before, 
and  being  unable  to  get  it  off  again  ;  which  accident 
presentinr-  to  his  terrified  imagination  a  dismal  picture 
of  his  passing  the  rest  of  his  days  in  darkness,  and  in 


154  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

hopeless  seclusion  from  his  friends  and  family,  caused 
him  to  struggle  with  great  violence,  and  to  utter  suffo* 
eating  cries.  Being  released,  his  face  was  discovered 
to  be  very  hot,  and  red,  and  damp ;  and  Miss  Tox  took 
him  on  her  lap,  much  exhausted. 

"  You  have  almost  forgotten  me,  sir,  I  dare  say,"  said 
Miss  Tox  to  Mr.  Toodle. 

"  No,  ma'am,  no,"  said  Toodle.  "  But  we've  all  on  us 
got  a  little  older  since  then." 

"  And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  sir  ? "  inquired  Miss 
Tox,  blandly. 

"  Hearty,  ma'am,  thank'ee,"  replied  Toodle.  "  How 
do  you  find  yourself,  ma'am.  Do  the  rheumaticks  keep 
off  pretty  well,  ma'am  ?  We  must  all  expect  to  grow 
into  'em,  as  we  gets  on." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "I  have  not  felt  any 
inconvenience  from  that  disorder  yet." 

"  You're  wery  fortunate,  ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Too- 
dle. "  Many  people  at  your  time  of  life,  ma'am,  is 
martyrs  to  it.  There  was  my  mother  " But  catch- 
ing his  wife's  eye  here,  Mr.  Toodle  judiciously  buried 
the  rest  in  another  mug  of  tea. 

"  You  never  mean  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Misa 
Tox,  looking  at  Rob,  "  that  that  is  your  "  — 

"  Eldest,  ma'am,"  said  Polly.  "  Yes,  indeed,  it  is. 
Hiat's  the  little  fellow,  ma'am,  that  was  the  innocent 
cause  of  so  much." 

"  This  here,  ma'am,"  said  Toodle,  "  is  him  with  the 
short  legs  —  and  they  was,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a 
touch  of  poetry  in  his  tone,  "  unusual  short  for  leath- 
ers—  as  Mr.  Dombey  made  a  Grinder  on." 

The  recollection  almost  overpowered  Miss  Tox.  The 
subject  of  it  had  a  peculiar  interest  for  her  directly 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  15a 

She  asked  him  to  shake  hands,  and  congratulated  his 
mother  on  his  frank,  ingenuous  face.  Rob,  overhearing 
her,  called  up  a  look,  to  justify  the  eulogium,  but  it  was 
hardly  the  right  look. 

"  And  now,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox,  —  "  and 
you  too,  sir,"  addressing  Toodle  —  "  I'll  tell  you,  plainly 
and  truly,  what  I  have  come  here  for.  You  may  be 
aware,  Mrs.  Richards  —  and,  possibly  you  may  be  aware 
too,  sir  —  that  a  little  distance  has  interposed  itself  be- 
tween me  and  some  of  my  friends,  and  that  where  I  used 
to  visit  a  good  deal,  I  do  not  visit  now." 

Polly,  who,  with  a  woman's  tact,  understood  this  at 
once,  expressed  as  much  in  a  little  look.  Mr.  Toodle 
who  ha^  not  the  faintest  idea  of  what  Miss  Tox  was 
talking  about,  expressed  that  also,  in  a  stare. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  how  our  little  coolness 
has  arisen  is  of  no  moment,  and  does  not  require  to  be 
discussed.  It  is  suiBcient  for  me  to  say,  that  I  have  the 
greatest  possible  respect  for,  and  interest  in,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  ;  "  Miss  Tox's  voice  faltered  ;  "  and  everything  that 
relates  to  him." 

Mr.  Toodle,  enlightened,  shook  his  head,  and  said  he 
had  heerd  it  said,  and,  for  his  own  part,  he  did  think,  as 
Mr.  Dombey  was  a  difficult  subject. 

"  Pray  don't  say  so,  sir,  if  you  please,"  returned  Misi 
Tox.  "  Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  say  so,  sir,  either  now, 
or  at  any  future  time.  Such  observations  cannot  but  be 
very  painful  to  me,  and  to  a  gentleman,  whose  mind  is 
constituted  as  I  am  quite  sure  yours  is,  can  afford  no 
permanent  satisfaction." 

Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  not  entertained  the  least  doubl 
of  offering  a  remark  that  would  be  received  with  acqui 
escence,  was  greatly  confounded. 


f56  DOifBEY  AXD   SON. 

"  All  that  I  wish  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  resumed  Miss 
Tox,  —  "  and  I  address  myself  to  you  too,  sir,  —  is  thia 
That  any  intelligence  of  the  proceedings  of  the  family, 
of  the  welfare  of  the  family,  of  the  health  of  the  family, 
that  reaches  you,  will  be  always  most  acceptable  to  me. 
That  I  .shall  be  always  very  glad  to  chat  with  Mrs. 
Richards  about  the  family,  and  about  old  times.  And 
AS  Mi's.  Richards  and  I  never  had  the  least  indifference 
(though  I  could  wish  now  that  we  had  been  better  ac- 
quainted, but  I  have  no  one  but  myself  to  blame  for 
that),  I  hope  she  will  not  object  to  our  being  very  good 
friends  now,  and  to  my  coming  backwards  and  forwards 
here,  when  I  like,  without  being  a  stranger.  Now,  I 
really  hope  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox,  earnestly, 
"  that  you  will  take  this,  as  I  mean  it,  like  a  good-hu- 
mored creature  as  you  always  were." 

Polly  was  gratified,  and  showed  it.  Mr.  Toodle  didn't 
know  whether  he  was  gratified  or  not,  and  preserved  a 
stolid  calmness. 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox  —  "  and  I 
hope  you  see  too,  sir  —  there  are  many  little  ways  in 
which  I  can  be  slightly  useful  to  you,  if  you  will  make 
no  stranger  of  me ;  and  in  wlych  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  be  so.  For  instance,  I  can  teach  your  children  some- 
thing. T  shall  bring  a  few  little  books  if  you'll  allow 
me,  and  some  work,  and  of  an  evening  now  and  then, 
they'll  learn  —  dear  me,  they'll  learn  rf  great  deal,  I 
trust,  and  be  a  credit  to  their  teacher." 

IMr.  Toodle,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  learning, 
jerked  his  head  approvingly  at  his  wife,  and  moistened 
his  hands  with  dawning  satisfaction. 

"  Then,  not  being  a  stranger,  I  shall  be  in  nobody's 
w&j"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  <uid  everything  will  go  on  just 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  157 

as  if  I  were  not  here.  Mrs.  Richards  will  do  her  mend* 
ing,  or  her  ironing,  or  her  nursing,  whatever  it  is,  with- 
out minding  ine  :  and  you'll  smoke  your  pipe,  too,  if 
you're  so  disposed,  sir,  won't  you  ?  '* 

"  Thank'ee  mum,"  said  Mr.  Toodle.  '*  Yos  ;  111  take 
ray  bit  of  backer." 

"  Very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  sir,"  rejoined  Miss  Tox, 
"  and  I  really  do  assure  you  now,  unfeignedly,  that  it 
will  be  a  great  comfort  to  me,  and  that  whatever  good 
I  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  do  the  children,  you  will 
more  than  pay  back  to  me,  if  you'll  enter  into  this  little 
bargain  comfortably,  and  easily,  and  good-naturedly, 
without  another  word  about  it." 

The  bargain  was  ratified  on  the  spot ;  and  Miss  Tox 
found  herself  so  much  at  home  already,  that  without 
delay  she  instituted  a  preliminary  examination  of  the 
children  all  round  —  which  Mr.  Toodle  much  admired 
—  and  booked  their  ages,  names,  and  acquirements,  on 
a  piece  of  paper.  This  ceremony,  and  a  little  attendant 
gossip,  prolonged  the  time  until  after  their  usual  hour 
of  going  to  bed,  and  detained  Miss  Tox  at  tlie  Toodle 
fireside  until  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  walk  home  alone. 
The  gallant  Grinder,  however,  being  still  there,  politely 
offered  to  attend  her  to  her  own  door ;  and  as  it  waa 
something  to  Miss  Tox,  to  be  seen  home  by  a  youth 
whom  IMr.  Dombey  had  first  inducted  into  those  manly 
garments  which  are  rarely  mentioned  by  name,  she  very 
readily  accepted  the  proposal. 

After  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Toodle  and  Polly,  and 
kissing  all  the  children.  Miss  Tox  left  the  house,  there- 
fore, with  unlimited  popularity,  and  carrying  away  with 
her  so  light  a  heart,  that  it  might  have  given  Mrs.  Chick 
ftffence  if  that  good  lady  could  have  weighed  it. 


158  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  in  his  modesty,  would  have  walked 
behind,  but  Miss  Tox  desired  him  to  keep  beside  her, 
tor  conversational  purposes;  and,  as  she  afterwards  ex- 
pressed it  to  his  mother,  "  drew  him  out,"  upon  the 
road. 

lie  drew  out  so  bright,  and  clear,  and  shining,  that 
Miss  Tox  was  charmed  with  him.  The  more  Miss  Tox 
drew  him  out,  the  finer  he  came  —  like  wire.  There 
never  was  a  better  or  more  promising  youth  —  a  more 
affectionate,  steady,  prudent,  sober,  honest,  meek,  candid 
young  man  —  than  Rob  drew  out  that  night. 

"  1  am  quite  glad,"  said  Miss  Tox,  arrived  at  her  own 
door,  "  to  know  you.  I  hope  you'll  consider  me  your 
friend,  and  that  you'll  come  and  see  me  as  often  as  you 
like.     Do  you  keep  a  money-box  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Rob  ;  "  I'm  saving  up  against" 
I've  got  enough  to  put  in  the  Bank,  ma'am." 

"  Very  laudable  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I'm  glad 
to  hear  it.     Put  this  half-crown  into  it,  if  you  please." 

"  Oh  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Rob,  "  but  really  I 
couldn't  think  of  depriving  you." 

"  I  commend  your  independent  spirit,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
•'but  it's  no  deprivation,  I  assure  you.  I  shall  be  of- 
fended if  you  don't  take  it,  as  a  mark  of  my  good-will. 
Grood-night,  Robin." 

"  Good-night,  ma'am,"  said  Rob,  "  and  thank  you  ! " 

Who  ran  sniggering  off  to  get  change,  and  tossed  it 
away  with  a  pieman.  But  they  never  taught  honor 
at  the  Grinders'  School,  where  the  system  that  pre- 
vailed was  particularly  strong  in  the  engendering  of 
hypocri.-y  Insomuch,  that  many  of  the  friends  ar 
masters  of  past  Grinders  said,  if  this  were  what  car. 
pf  educjition  for  the  common  people,  let  us  have  noi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  i5b 

Some  more  rational  said,  let  us  have  a  better  one.  But 
the  governing  powers  of  the  Grinders'  Company  were 
ftlways  ready  for  thein,  by  picking  out  a  few  boys  who 
had  turned  out  well,  in  spite  of  the  system,  and  roundly 
asserting  that  they  could  have  only  turned  out  well  be- 
cause of  it.  Which  settled  the  business  of  those  ob 
jectors  out  of  band,  and  established  the  glory  of  the 
tirinders'  Institution. 


160  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

rURTHEk    ADVENTURES    OF    CAPTAIN     EDWARD     CUTTLB. 
MARINER. 

Time,  sure  of  foot  and  strong  of  will,  had  so  pressed 
onward,  that  the  year  enjoined  by  the  old  Instrument- 
maker,  as  the  term  during  which  his  friend  should  refrain 
from  opening  the  sealed  packet  accompanying  the  letter 
he  had  left  for  him,  was  now  nearly  expired,  and  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  began  to  look  at  it  of  an  evening,  with  feel- 
ings of  mystery  and  uneasiness. 

The  captain,  in  his  honor,  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  opening  the  parcel  one  hour  before  the  expiration  of 
the  term,  as  he  would  have  thought  of  opening  himself, 
to  study  his  own  anatomy.  He  merely  brought  it  out, 
at  a  certain  stage  of  his  first  evening  pipe,  laid  it  on  the 
table,  and  sat  gazing  at  the  outside  of  it,  through  the 
smoke,  in  silent  gravity,  for  two  or  three  hours  at  a  spelL 
Sometimes,  when  he  had  contemplated  it  thus  for  a  pretty 
long  while,  the  captain  would  hitch  his  chair,  by  degrees, 
farther  and  farther  off,  as  if  to  get  beyond  the  range 
of  its  fascination  ;  but  if  this  were  his  design,  he  never 
succeeded :  for  even  when  he  was  brought  up  by  the- 
Itfirlor  wall,  the  packet  still  attracted  him ;  or  if  his  eyes, 
in  thoughtful  wandering  roved  to  the  ceiling  or  the  fire, 
its  image  immediately  followed,  and  posted  itself  con- 
spicuously among  the  coals,  or  took  up  an  advantageoaa 
position  on  the  whitewash. 


DOMBET  AND   SON.  161 

In  respect  of  Heart's  Delight,  the  c&ptaiii's  parental 
regard  and  admiration  knew  no  change.  But  since  his 
last  intervi»?w  with  Mr.  Carker,  Captain  Cuttle  had  come 
to  entertain  doubts  whether  his  former  intervention  in 
behalf  of  that  young  lady  and  his  dear  boy  Wal'r,  had 
proved  altogether  so  favorable  as  he  could  have  wished, 
and  as  he  at  the  time  believed.  The  captain  was 
troubled  with  a  serious  misgiving  that  he  had  done  more 
harm  tiian  good,  in  short ;  and  in  his  remorse  and  mod- 
esty be  made  the  best  atonement  he  could  think  of,  by 
putting  himself  out  of  the  way  of  doing  any  harm  to  any 
one,  and,  as  it  were,  throwing  himself  overboard  for  a 
dangerous  person. 

Self-buried,  therefore,  among  the  instruments,  the  cap- 
tain never  went  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  or  reported 
himself  in  any  way  to  Florence  or  Miss  Nipper.  He 
even  severed  himself  from  Mr.  Perch,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  next  visit,  by  dryly  informing  that  gentleman,  that 
he  thanked  him  for  his  company,  but  had  cut  himself 
adrift  from  all  such  acquaintance,  as  he  didn't  know  what 
magazine  he  mightn't  blow  up,  without  meaning  of  it. 
In  this  self-imposed  retirement,  the  captain  passed  whole 
days  and  weeks  without  interchanging  a  word  with  any 
one  but  Rob  the  Grinder,  whom  he  esteemed  as  a  pat- 
tern of  disinterested  attachment  and  fidelity.  In  this 
retirement,  the  captain,  gazing  at  the  packet  of  an  even- 
ing, would  sit  smoking,  and  thinking  of  Florence  and 
poor  Walter,  until  they  both  seemed  to  his  homely  fancy 
to  be  dead,  and  to  have  passed  away  into  eternal  youth, 
the  beautiful  and  innocent  children  of  his  first  remem 
orance. 

The  captain  did  not,  however,  in  his  musings,  neglect 
'lis  own  improvement,  or  the  mental  culture  of  Rob  the 

VOL.  III.  11 


162  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Grinder.  That  young  man  was  generally  required  to 
read  out  of  some  book  to  the  captain,  for  one  liour  every 
evening ;  and  as  the  captain  implicitly  believed  that  all 
books  were  true,  he  accumulated,  by  this  means,  many 
remarkable  facts.  On  Sunday  nights,  the  captain  always 
lead  for  himself,  before  going  to  bed,  a  certain  Divine 
Sermon  once  delivered  on  a  Mount ;  and  although  he 
was  accustomed  to  quote  the  text,  without  book,  after  his 
own  manner,  he  appeared  to  read  it  with  as  reverent  an 
understanding  of  its  heavenly  spirit,  as  if  he  had  got  it 
all  by  lieart  in  Greek,  and  had  been  able  to  write  any 
number  of  fierce  theological  disquisitions  on  its  every 
phrase. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  reverence  for  the  inspired 
writings,  under  the  admirable  system  of  the  Grinders' 
School,  had  been  developed  by  a  perpetual  bruising  of 
h\i  intellectual  shins  against  all  the  proper  names  of  all 
the  tribes  of  Judah,  and  by  the  monotonous  repetition  of 
hard  verses,  especially  by  way  of  punishment,  and  by 
the  parading  of  him  at  six  years  old  in  leather  breeches 
three  times  a  Sunday,  very  high  up,  in  a  very  hot  church, 
with  a  great  organ  buzzing  against  his  drowsy  head,  like 
an  exceedingly  busy  bee  —  Rob  the  Grinder  made  a 
mighty  show  of  being  edified  when  the  captain  ceased  to 
read,  and  generally  yawned  and  nodded  while  the  read- 
ing was  in  progress.  The  latter  fact  being  never  so 
much  as  suspected  by  the  good  captain. 

Captain  Cuttle,  also,  as  a  man  of  business,  took  ta._ 
keeping  books.  In  these  he  entered  observations  on  the 
weather,  and  on  the  currents  of  the  wagons  and  other 
vehicles  :  which  he  observed  in  that  quarter,  to  set  west- 
ward in  the  morning  and  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
•lay,  and  eastwai'd  towards  the  evening.     Two  or  three 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  163 

Ftragglers  appearing  in  one  week,  who  "  spoke  him  "  — 
so  the  captain  entered  it  —  on  the  subject  of  spectacles 
and  who,  without  positively  purchasing,  said  they  would 
look  in  again,  the  captain  decided  that  the  business  was 
improving,  and  made  an  entry  in  the  day-book  to  that 
effect ;  the  wind  then  blowing  (which  he  first  recorded) 
pretty  fresh,  west  and  by  north ;  having  changed  in  the 
night. 

One  of  the  captain's  chief  difficulties  was  Mr.  Toots, 
who  called  frequently,  and  who,  without  saying  much, 
seemed  to  have  an  idea  that  the  little  back-parlor  was 
an  eligible  room  to  chuckle  in,  as  he  would  sit  and  avail 
himself  of  its  accommodations  in  that  regard  by  the  half- 
hour  together,  without  at  all  advancing  in  intimacy  with 
the  captain.  The  captain,  rendered  cautious  by  his  late 
experience,  was  unable  quite  to  satisfy  his  mind  whether 
Mr.  Toots  was  the  mild  subject  he  appeared  to  be,  or  was 
a  profoundly  artful  and  dissimulating  hypocrite.  His 
frequent  reference  to  Miss  Dombey  was  suspicious ;  but 
the  captain  had  a  secret  kindness  for  Mr.  Toots's  apparent 
reliance  on  him,  and  forebore  to  decide  against  him  for 
the  present ;  merely  eying  him,  with  a  sagacity  not  to  be 
described,  whenever  he  approached  the  subject  that  was 
Dearest  to  his  heart. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  blurted  out  Mr.  Toots,  one  day  all  at 
once,  as  his  manner  was,  "  do  you  think  you  could  think 
favorably  of  that  proposition  of  mine,  and  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance  ?  " 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad,"  replied  the 
captain,  who  had  at  length  concluded  on  »  course  of 
action  ;  "  I've  beeti  turning  that  there,  over." 

"  Captain  Gills,  it's  very  kind  of  you,"  retorted  Mr. 
loots.     "I'm  much   obliged   to   you.      Upon  my   word 


164  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  honor.  Captain  Gills,  it  would  be  a  charity  to 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.  It  reallj 
would." 

"You  see,  brother,"  argued  the  captain  slowly,  "I 
don't  know  you." 

"But  you  never  can  know  me.  Captain  Gills,"  replied 
Mr.  Toots,  steadfast  to  his  point,  "  if  you  don't  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

The  captain  seemed  struck  by  the  originality  and 
power  of  this  remark,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Toots  as  if 
he  thought  there  was  a  great  deal  more  in  him  than 
he  had  expected. 

"  Well  said,  my  lad,"  observed  the  captain,  nodding 
his  head  thoughtfully ;  "  and  true.  Now  look'ee  here : 
You've  made  some  observations  to  me,  which  gives  me 
to  understand  as  you  admire  a  certain  ?weet  creetur. 
Hey?" 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  ]VIr.  Toots,  gesticulating  vio- 
lently with  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat,  "  Ad- 
miration is  not  ;he  word.  Upon  my  honor,  you  have 
no  conception  what  my  feelings  are.  If  I  could  be 
dyed  black,  and  made  Miss  Dombey's  slave,  I  should 
consider  it  a  compliment.-  If,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  my 
property,  I  could  get  transmigrated  into  Miss  Dombey's 
dog  —  I  —  I  really  think  I  should  never  leave  off  wag- 
ging my  tail.  I  should  be  so  perfectly  happy,  Captain 
Gills ! " 

Mr.  Toots  said  it  with  watery  eyes,  and  pressed  his 
hat  against  his  bosom  with  deep  emotion. 

"  My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  moved  to  corapa*- 
Bion,  "  if  you're  in  arnest  "  — 

"  Captain  Gills,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  "  I'm  in  such  a  state 
>f  mind,  and  am  so  dreadfully  in  earnest,  that  if  I  could 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  16*) 

swear  to  it  upon  a  hot  piece  of  iron,  or  a  liv(^,  coal,  or 
melted  lead,  or  burning  sealing-wax,  or  anything  of  that 
sort,  I  should  be  glad  to  hurt  myself,  as  a  relief  to  my 
feelings."  And  Mr.  Toots  looked  hurriedly  about  the 
room,  as  if  for  some  sufficiently  i)ainful  means  of  accom 
plishing  his  dread  purpose. 

The  captain  pushed  his  glazed  hat  back  upon  his 
nead,  stroked  his  face  down  with  his  heavy  hand  — 
making  his  nose  more  mottled  in  the  process  —  and 
planting  himself  before  Mr.  Toots,  and  hooking  him  by 
the  lappel  of  his  coat,  addressed  him  in  these  words, 
while  Mr.  Toots  looked  up  into  his  face  with  much  atten- 
tion and  some  wonder. 

"  If  you're  in  arnest,  you  see,  my  lad,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "you're  a  object  of  clemency,  and  clemency  is  the 
brightest  jewel  m  the  crown  of  a  Briton's  head,  for 
which  you'll  overhaul  the  constitution,  as  laid  down  in 
Rule  Britannia,  and,  when  found,  that  is  the  charter  ai 
them  garden  angels  was  a-singing  of,  so  many  times  over. 
Stand  by !  This  here  proposal  o'  your'n  takes  me  a  little 
aback.  And  why?  Because  I  holds  my  own  only,  you 
undei'stand,  in  these  here  waters,  and  haven't  got  no 
consort,  and  may  be  don't  wish  for  none.  Steady  !  You 
hailed  me  first,  along  of  a  certain  young  lady,  as  yoti 
was  chartered  by.  Now  if  you  and  me  is  to  keep  one 
another's  company  at  all,  that  there  young  creetur's 
name  must  never  be  named  nor  referred  to.  I  don' 
know  what  harm  mayn't  have  been  done  by  naming  of 
it  too  free  afore  now,  and  thereby  I  brings  up  short 
D'ye  make  me  out  pretty  clear,  brother  ?  " 

"  Well,  you'll  excuse  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr 
Toots.  "  if  I  don't  quite  follow  you  sometimes.  But 
upon  ray  word  I  —  it's  «.  hard  thing,  Captain  Gills,  nol 


166  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

lo  be  able  to  mention  Miss  Dombey.  I  really  have  go! 
pucii  a  dreadful  load  here  !  "  —  Mr.  Toots  pathetically 
touched  his  shirt-front  with  both  hands  — "  that  I  feel 
iiiglit  and  day  exactly  as  if  somebody  was  sitting  upon 
lue." 

"  Them,"  said  the  captain,  "  is  the  terms  I  offer.  If 
they're  hard  upon  you,  brother,  as  mayhap  they  are, 
give  'em  a  wide  berth,  sheer  off,  and  part  company 
cheerily  ! " 

"  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  hardly  know 
how  it  is,  but  after  what  you  told  me  when  I  came 
here,  for  the  first  time,  I  —  I  feel  that  I'd  rather  think 
about  Miss  Dombey  in  your  society  than  talk  about  her 
in  almost  anybody  else's.  Therefore,  Captain  Gills,  if 
you'll  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  I  shall 
be  very  happy  to  accept  it  on  your  own  conditions.  I 
wish  to  be  honorable.  Captain  Gills,"  said  JMr.  Toots, 
holding  back  his  extended  hand  for  a  moment,  "  and 
therefore  I  am  obliged  to  say  that  I  can  not  help  tiiink- 
ing  about  Miss  Dombey.  It's  impossible  for  me  to  make 
a  promise  not  to  think  about  her." 

"  My  lad,"  said  the  captain,  whose  opinion  of  Mr.  Toots 
was  much  improved  by  this  candid  avowal,  "  a  man's 
thoughts  is  hke  the  winds,  and  nobody  cant  an;  wer  for 
'em  for  certain,  any  length  of  time  together.  Is  it  a 
treaty  as  to  words?" 

"  As  to  words.  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots, 
"  I  think  I  can  bind  myself." 

Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  hand  upon  it,  theiT 
and  there  ;    and  the  captain,  with  a  pleasant  and  gra- 
cious show  of  condescension,  bestowed  his  acquaintance 
upon  him  formally.     Mr.  Toots  seemed   much  relieved 
and  gljiddened  by  the  acquisition,  and  chuckled  raptur 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  167 

ously  during  the  remainder  of  his  visit.  The  cai>fain, 
for  his  part,  was  not  ill  pleased  to  occupy  that  position 
of  patronage,  and  was  exceedingly  well  satisfied  by  iiia 
own  prudence  and  foresight. 

But  rich  as  Captain  Cuttle  was  in  the  latter  quality, 
he  received  a  surprise  that  same  evening  from  a  no  less 
ingenuous  and  simple  youth,  than  Rob  the  Grinder. 
Thai,  artless  lad,  drinking  tea  at  the  same  table,  and 
bending  meekly  over  his  cup  and  saucer,  having  taken 
sidelong  observations  of  his  master  for  some  time,  who 
was  reading  the  newspaper  with  great  difficulty,  but  much 
dignity  through  his  glasses,  broke  silence  by  saying  — 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  captain,  but  you  mayn't  be 
in  want  of  any  pigeons,  may  you,  sir  ? " 

"  No,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain. 

"  Because  I  was  wishing  to  dispose  of  mine,  captain,'' 
said  Rob. 

*'Ay,  ay?"  cried  the  captain,  lifting  up  his  bushy 
eyebrows  a  little. 

"  Yes ;  I'm  going,  captain,  if  you  please,"  said  Rob. 

"  Going  ?  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  the  captain, 
looking  round  at  him  over  the  glasses. 

"What?  didn't  you  know  that  I  was  going  to  leave 
you.  captain  ?  "  asked  Rob,  with  a  sneaking  smile. 

The  captain  put  down  the  paper,  took  off  his  spec- 
tacles, and  brought  his  eyes  to  bear  on  the  deserter. 

"  Oh  yes,  captain,  I  am  going  to  give  you  warning. 
I  thouglit  you'd  have  known  that  beforehand,  perhaps," 
said  Rob,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  getting  up.  "  If  you 
3ould  be  so  good  as  provide  yourself  soon,  captain,  it 
would  be  a  great  convenience  to  me.  You  couldn't 
provide  yourself  by  to-morrow  morning,  I  am  afraid. 
::aptain ;  could  you,  do  you  ihink?" 


168  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

-'  And  you're  a-going  to  desert  your  colors  are  you 
my  lad  ?  "  said  the  captain,  after  a  long  examination  of 
his  face. 

"  01;,  it's  very  hard  upon  a  cove,  captain,"  cried  the 
tender  Rob,  injured  and  indignant  in  a  moment,  "  thai 
he  can't  give  lawful  warning,  without  being  frowned  at 
in  that  way,  and  called  a  deserter.  You  haven't  any 
right  to  call  a  poor  cove  names,  captain.  It  a'n't  be- 
cause I'm  a  servant  and  you're  a  master,  that  you're 
to  go  and  libel  me.  What  wrong  hiive  I  done  ?  Come, 
captain,  let  me  know  what  my  crime  is,  will  you  ?  " 

The  stricken  Grinder  wept,  and  put  his  coat-cuff  in 
his  eye. 

"Come,  captain,"  cried  the  injured  youth,  "give  my 
crime  a  name  !  What  have  I  been  and  done  ?  Have  I 
stolen  any  of  the  property  ?  Have  I  set  the  house  afire  ? 
If  I  have,  why  don't  you  give  me  in  charge,  and  try 
it  ?  But  to  take  away  the  character  of  a  lad  that's  been 
a  good  servant  to  you,  because  he  can't  afford  to  stand 
in  his  own  light  for  your  good,  what  a  injury  it  is,  and 
what  a  bad  return  for  faithful  service  !  Tliis  is  the  way 
young  coves  is  spiled  and  drove  wrong.  I  wonder  at 
you,  captain,  I  do." 

All  of  which  the  Grinder  howled  forth  in  a  lachry- 
mose whine,  and  backing  carefully  towards  the  door. 

"And  so  you've  got  another  berth,  have  you,  my  lad  ?  " 
Baid  the  captain,  eying  him  intently. 

*•  Yes,  captain,  since  you  put  it  in  that  shape,  I  have 
got  another  berth,"  cried  Rob,  backing  more  and  more  ; 
"  a  better  berth  than  I've  got  here,  and  one  where  I 
don't  so  much  as  want  your  good  word,  captain,  whicii 
is  fort'nate  for  me,  after  all  the  dirt  you've  throw'd  at 
die,  because  I'm  poor,  and  can't  afford  to  stand  in  ray 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  169 

Kwn  light  for  your  good.  Yes,  I  have  got  another  berth  $ 
and  if  it  wasn't  for  leaving  you  unprovided,  captain,  I'd 
go  to  it  now,  sooner  than  I'd  take  them  names  from 
you,  because  I'm  poor,  and  can't  afford  to  stand  in  my 
own  light  for  your  good.  Why  do  you  reproach  me 
for  being  poor,  and  not  standing  in  my  own  hght  foi 
your  good,  captain?  How  can  you  so  demean  your- 
self ?  " 

"  Look  ye  here,  ray  boy,"  replied  the  peaceful  cap- 
tain.   "  Don't  you  pay  out  no  more  of  them  words." 

"  WfiU,  then,  don't  you  pay  in  no  more  of  your  words, 
captain,"  retorted  the  roused  innocent,  getting  louder  in 
his  whine,  and  backing  into  the  shop.  "  I'd  sooner  you 
took  my  blood  than  my  character." 

"  Because,"  pursued  the  captain  calmly,  "  you  have 
heerd,  maybe,  of  such  a  thing  as  a  rope's  end." 

"  Oh,  have  I  though,  cjtptain  ? "  cried  the  taunting 
Grinder.  *'  No  I  haven't.  I  never  heerd  of  any  such 
a  article  ! " 

'*  Well,"  said  tlie  captain,  "  it's  my  belief  as  you'll 
know  more  about  it  pretty  soon,  if  you  don't  keep  a 
bright  look-out.  I  can  read  your  signals,  my  lad.  You 
may  go." 

"  Oh  !  I  may  go  at  once,  may  I,  captain  ?  "  cried  Rob, 
exulting  in  his  success.  "  But  mind !  /  never  asked  to 
go  at  once,  captain.  You  are  not  to  take  away  my  cliar- 
acter  again,  because  you  L.end  me  off  of  your  own  accoid. 
And  you're  not  to  stop  any  of  my  wages,  captain  ! " 

His  employer  settled  tlie  last  point  by  producing  the 
tin  canister  and  teUing  the  Grinder's  money  out  in  full 
upon  the  table.  Rob,  snivelling  and  sobbing,  and  griev- 
ously wounded  in  his  feehngs,  took  up  the  pieces  one 
by  one.  with  a  sob  and  a  snivel  for  each,  and  tied  thera 


170  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

np  separately  in  knots  in  his  pocket-handkerchiof ;  then 
he  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the  house  and  filled  his  hat 
and  pockets  with  pigeons ;  then,  came  down  to  his  bed 
under  the  counter  and  made  up  his  bundle,  snivelling 
and  sobbing  louder,  as  if  he  were  cut  to  the  heart  by  old 
associations  ;  then  he  whined  "  Good-night,  captain.  I 
leave  you  without  malice  !  "  and  then,  going  out  upon  the 
door-step,  pulled  the  little  midshipman's  nose  as  a  part- 
ing indignity,  and  went  away  down  the  street  grinning 
triumph. 

The  captain,  left  to  himself,  resumed  his  perusal  of 
the  news  as  if  nothing  unusual  or  unexpected  had  taken 
place,  and  went  reading  on  with  the  greatest  assiduity. 
But  never  a  word  did  Captain  Cuttle  understand,  though 
he  read  a  vast  number,  for  Rob  the  Grinder  was  scam- 
pering up  one  column  and  down  another  all  through  the 
newspaper. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  worthy  captain  had  ever  felt 
himself  quite  abandoned  until  now  ;  but  now,  old  Sol 
Gills,  Walter,  and  Heart's  Delight  were  lost  to  him  in- 
deed, and  now  Mr.  Carker  deceived  and  jeered  him 
cruelly.  They  were  all  represented  in  the  false  Rob,  to 
whom  he  had  held  forth  many  a  time  on  the  recollections 
that  were  warm  within  him  ;  he  had  believed  in  the  false 
Rob,  and  had  been  glad  to  believe  in  him  ;  he  had  made 
a  companion  of  him  as  the  last  of  the  old  ship's  com- 
pany ;  he  had  taken  the  command  of  the  little  midship- 
man with  him  at  his  right  hand ;  he  had  meant  to  do  hia 
duty  by  him,  and  had  felt  almost  as  kindly  towards  the 
boy  as  if  they  had  been  shipwrecked  and  cast  upon  a 
desert  place  together.  And  now  that  the  false  Rob  had 
brought  distrust,  treachery,  and  meanness  into  the  very 
parlor,  which  was  a  kind  of  sacred  place,  Captain  Cuttle 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  171 

Pelt  as  if  the  parlor  might  have  gone  down  next,  and  not 
surprised  him  much  by  its  sinking,  or  given  him  any 
very  great  concern. 

Tlierefore  Captain  Cuttle  read  the  newspaper  with 
profound  attention  and  no  comprehension,  and  therefore 
Captain  Cuttle  said  nothing  whatever  about  Rob  to  hjm- 
Belf,  or  admitted  to  himself  that  he  was  thinking  about 
him,  or  would  recognize  in  the  most  distant  manner 
that  Rob  had  anything  to  do  with  his  feeling  as  lor.ely  as 
Robinson  Crusoe. 

In  the  same  composed,  business-like  way,  the  captain 
stepped  over  to  Leadenhall  Market  in  the  dusk,  and 
effected  an  arrangement  with  a  private  watchman  on 
duty  there,  to  come  and  put  up  and  take  down  the  shut- 
ters of  the  Wooden  Midshipman  every  night  and  morn- 
ing. He  then  called  in  at  the  eating-house  to  diminish 
by  one  half  tlie  daily  rations  theretofore  supplied  to  the 
midshipman,  and  at  the  public-house  to  stop  the  traitor's 
beer.  "  My  young  man,"  said  the  captain,  in  explanation 
to  the  young  lady  at  the  bar,  "my  young  man  having 
bettered  himself,  miss."  Lastly,  the  captain  resolved  to 
take  possession  of  the  bed  under  the  counter,  and  to 
turn-in  there  o'  nights  instead  of  up-stairs,  as  sole  guar- 
dian of  the  property. 

From  this  bed  Captain  Cuttle  daily  rose  thenceforth, 
and  clapped  on  his  glazed  hat  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
iDg,  with  the  solitary  air  of  Crusoe  finishing  his  toilet 
with  his  goat-skin  cap  ;  and  although  his  fears  of  a  visi- 
tation from  the  savage  tribe,  MacStinger,  were  somewhat 
cooled,  as  similar  apprehensions  on  the  part  of  that  lone 
mariner  used  to  be  by  the  lapse  of  a  long  interval  with- 
out any  symptoms  of  the  cannibals,  he  still  observed  a 
regular  routine  of   defensive  operations,  and  never  en- 


172  DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 

countered  a  bonnet  without  previous  survey  from  his 
castle  of  retreat.  In  the  mean  time  (during  which  he 
received  no  call  from  Mr.  Toots,  who  wrote  to  say  he 
was  out  uf  town)  his  own  voice  began  to  have  a  strange 
sound  in  his  ears :  and  he  acquired  such  habits  of  pro- 
found meditation  from  much  polishing  and  stowing  away 
of  the  stock,  and  from  much  sitting  behind  the  counter 
reading,  or  looking  out  of  window,  that  the  red  rim  made 
on  his  forehead  by  the  hard  glazed  hat,  sometimes  ached 
again  with  excess  of  reflection. 

The  year  being  now  expired,  Captain  Cuttle  deemed 
it  expedient  to  open  the  packet ;  but  as  he  had  always 
designed  doing  this  in  the  presence  of  Rob  the  Grinder, 
wh9  had  brought  it  to  him,  and  as  he  had  an  idea  that 
it  would  be  regular  and  ship-shape  to  open  it  in  the  pres- 
ence of  somebody,  he  was  sadly  put  to  it  for  want  of  a 
witness.  In  this  difficulty,  he  hailed  one  day  with  un- 
usual delight  the  announcement  in  the  Shipping  Intel- 
ligence of  the  arrival  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  Captain 
John  Bunsby,  from  a  coasting  voyage ;  and  to  that  phi- 
losopher immediately  despatched  a  letter  by  post,  enjoin- 
ing inviolable  secrecy  as  to  his  place  of  residence,  and 
requesting  to  be  favored  with  an  early  visit,  in  the  even- 
mg  season.  » 

Bunsby,  who  was  one  of  those  sages  who  act  upon 
conviction,  took  some  days  to  get  the  conviction  thor- 
oughly into  his  mind,  that  he  had  received  a  letter  to 
this  effect.  But  when  he  had  grafpled  with  the  fact,  -^ 
and  mastered  it,  he  promptly  sent  his  boy  with  the  mes- 
sage, "  He's  a-coraing  to-night."  Who  being  instructed 
to  deliver  those  words  and  disappear,  fulfilled  his  mission 
like  a  tarry  spirit,  charged  with  a  mysterious  warning. 

The  captain,  well  pleased  to  receive  it,  made  prepara 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  173 

tion  of  pipes  and  rum  and  Water,  and  awaited  his  visitor 
In  the  back-parlor.  At  the  hour  of  eight,  a  deep  lowing, 
as  of  a  nautical  bull,  outside  the  shop-door,  succeeded  by 
the  knocking  of  a  stick  on  the  panel,  announced  to  the 
listening  ear  of  Captain  Cuttle,  that  Bunsby  was  along- 
side ;  whom  he  instantly  admitted,  shaggy  and  loose,  and 
with  his  stolid  mahogany  visage,  as  usual  appearing  to 
have  no  consciousness  of  anything  before  it,  but  to  he 
attentively  observing  something  that  was  taking  place  in 
quite  another  part  of  the  world. 

"  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  grasping  him  by  the  hand, 
"  What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer  ?  " 

"  Shipmet,"  replied  the  voice  within  Bunsby,  unaccom- 
panied by  any  sign  on  the  part  of  the  commander  him- 
self, "  Hearty,  hearty." 

"  Bunsby  ! "  said  the  captain,  rendering  irrepressible 
homage  to  his  genius,  "here  you  are!  a  man  {is  can  give 
an  opinion  as  is  brighter  than  di'monds  —  and  give  me 
the  lad  with  the  tarry  trousers  as  shines  to  me  like 
di'monds  bright,  for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  Stanfell's 
Budget,  and  when  found  make  a  note.  Here  you  are, 
a  ipan  as  gave  an  opinion  in  this  here  very  place,  tliat 
has  come  true,  every  letter  on  it,"*  which  the  captain 
sincerely  believed. 

"  Ay,  ay  ?  "  growled  Bunsby. 

**  Every  letter,"  said  the  captain. 

"For  why?"  growled  Bunsby,  looking  at  his  ft  tend 
ftir  the  first  time.  "Which  way?  If  so,  why  not? 
Therefore."  With  these  oracular  words  —  they  seemed 
almost  to  make  the  captain  giddy;  they  launcli/jd  him 
upon  such  a  sea  of  speculation  and  conjecture  —  the 
«age  submitted  to  be  helped  off  with  his  pilot-coat,  and 
accompanied  his  friend  into  the  back-parlor,  where  his 


174  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

hand  presently  alighted  on  the  rum-bottle,  from  which 
he  brewed  a  stiff  glass  of  grog;  and  presently  after- 
wards on  a  pipe,  which  he  lilled,  lighted,  and  began  to 
Bmoke. 

Captain  Cuttle,  imitating  his  visitor  in  the  matter  of 
these  particulars,  though  the  rapt  and  imperturbable 
manner  of  the  great  commander  was  far  above  his  pow- 
ers, sat  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  fireside,  observing 
him  respectfully,  and  as  if  he  waited  for  some  encourage- 
ment or  expression  of  curiosity  on  Bunsby's  part  which 
should  lead  him  to  his  own  affairs.  But  as  the  mahogany 
philosopher  gave  no  evidence  of  being  sentient  of  any- 
thing but  warmth  and  tobacco,  except  once,  when  taking 
his  pipe  from  his  lips  to  make  room  for  his  glass,  he 
incidentally  remarked  with  exceeding  gruffness,  that  liis 
name  was  Jack  Bunsby  —  a  declaration  that  presented 
but  small  opening  for  conversation  —  the  captain  bespeak- 
ing his  attention  in  a  short  complimentary  exordium, 
narrated  the  whole  history  of  Uncle  Sol's  departure, 
with  the  change  it  had  produced  in  his  own  life  and 
fortunes;  and  concluded  by  placing  the  packet  on  the 
table. 

After  a  long  pause,  Mr.  Bunsby  nodded  his  head. 

"  Open  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

Bunsby  nodded  again. 

The  captain  accordingly  broke  the  seal,  and  disclosed 
to  view  two  folded  papers,  of  which  he  severally  read 
the  indorsements,  thus :  "  Last  Will  and  Testament  of 
Solomon  Gills."    "  Letter  for  Ned  Cuttle." 

Bungby,  with  his  eye  on  the  coast  of  Greenland, 
leemed  to  listen  for  the  contents.  The  captain  there 
fore  hemmed  to  clear  his  throat,  and  read  the  lettei 
aloud. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  175 

« '  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  When  I  left  heme  for  the 
West  Indies'"  — 

Here  tlie  captain  stopped,  and  looked  hard  at  IJunsby, 
who  looked  fixedly  at  the  coast  of  Greenland. 

—  "  '  in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear  boy^ 
I  knew  that  if  you  were  acquainted"  with  my  design, 
you  would  thwart  it,  or  accompany  me  ;  and  therefore 
I  kept  it  secret.  If  you  ever  read  this  letter,  Ne«l,  I 
am  likely  to  be  dead.  You  will  easily  forgive  .in  old 
friend's  folly  then,  and  will  feel  for  the  restlessness  and 
uncertainty  in  which  he  wandered  away  on  such  a  wild 
voyage.  So  no  more  of  that.  I  have  little  hope  that 
my  poor  boy  will  ever  read  these  words,  or  gladden  your 
eyes  with  the  sight  of  his  frank  face  any  more.'  No, 
no;  no  more,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  sorrowfully  meditat- 
ing;  "no  more.     There  he  lays,  all  his  days"  — 

Mr.  Bunsby,  who  had  a  musical  ear,  suddenly  bel- 
lowed, '•'  In  the  Bays  of  Biscay,  O  !  "  which  so  affected 
the  good  captain,  as  an  appropriate  tribute  to  departed 
worth,  that  he  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  acknowledg- 
ment, and  was  fain  to  wipe  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  the  captain  with  a  sigh,  as  the 
lament  of  Bunsby  ceased  to  ring  and  vibrate  in  the  sky- 
light. "  Affliction  sore,  long  time  he  bore,  and  let  ua 
overhaul  the  woUume,  and  there  find  it," 

"  Physicians,"  observed  Bunsby,  "  was  in  vain." 

"  Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  captain,  "  what's  the 
good  o'  them  in  two  or  three  hundred  fathoms  o'  water!" 
Then,  returning  to  the  letter,  he  read  on  :  —  "  '  But  if 
he  siiould  be  by,  when  it  is  opened ; ' "  the  captain  in- 
voluntarily looked  round,  and  shook  his  head ;  "  *  or 
^liould  know  of  it  at  any  other  time;'"  the  captain  shook 
lis  head   again     "  '  my  blessing  on.  him       In  case  the 


I7C  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

accompanying  |%aper  is  not  legally  written,  it  matters 
verj'  little,  for  there  is  no  one  interested  but  you  and 
he,  and  my  plain  wish  is,  that  if  he  is  living  he  should 
have  what  little  there  may  be,  and  if  (as  I  fear)  other- 
wise, that  you  should  have  it,  Ned.  -You  will  respect 
my  wish,  I  know.  God  bless  you  for  it,  and  for  all 
your  friendliness  besides,  to  Solomon  Gills.'  Buns- 
by ! "  said  the  captain,  appealing  to  him  solemnly,  "  what 
do  you  make  of  this  ?  Therp  you  sit,  a  man  as  has  had 
his  head  broke  from  infancy  up'ards,  and  has  got  a  new 
opinion  into  it  at  every  seam  as  has  been  opened.  Now, 
wliat  do  you  make  o'  this  ?  " 

''  If  so  be,"  returned  Bunsby,  with  unusual  prompti- 
tude, "  as  he's  dead,  my  opinion  is  he  won't  come  back 
no  more.  If  so  be  as  he's  alive,  my  opinion  is  he  will. 
Do  I  say  he  will  ?  No.  Why  not  ?  Because  the  bear- 
ings of  this  obserwation  lays  in  the  application  on   it." 

"  Bunsby  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  seem  to 
have  estimated  the  value  of  his  distinguished  friend's 
opinions  in  proportion  to  the  immensity  of  the  difficiiliy 
he  experienced  in  making  anything  out  of  them;  '•  Buns- 
by," said  the  captain,  quite  confounded  by  admiration, 
"  you  carry  a  weight  of  mind  easy,  as  would  swamp  one 
of  my  tonnage  soon.  But  in  regaid  o'  this  here  will,  I 
don't  mean  to  take  no  steps  towards  the  property  — 
Ix)rd  forbid  !  —  except  to  keep  it  for  a  more  rightful 
owner;  and  I  hope  yet  as  the  rightful  owner,  Sol  Gills, 
is  living  and  '11  come  back,  strange  as  it  is  that  he  a'n't 
f<>rwarded  no  dispatches.  Now,  what  is  your  opinion, 
Bun.^by,  as  to  stowing  of  these  here  papers  away  again, 
and  marking  outside  as  they  was  opened,  such  a  day,  in 
presence  of  .John  Bunsby  and  Ed'ard  Cuttle  ?  " 

Bunsby,  descrying  no  objection,  on  the  coast  of  Greeih 


DOMBEY   AKD   SON.  177 

land  or  el.^where,  to  this  proposal,  it  was  carried  into 
execution  ;  and  that  great  man,  bringing  his  eye  into  the 
present  for  a  moment,  affixed  his  sign-manual  to  th* 
cover,  totally  abstaining,  witli  characteristic  modesty, 
from  the  use  of  capital  letters.  Captain  Cuttle,  having 
attached  his  own  left-handed  signature,  and  locked  up 
the  packet  in  the  iron  safe,  entreated  his  guest  to  mix 
another  glass  and  smoke  another  pipe  ;  and  doing  the 
like  himself,  fell  a-musing  over  the  fire  on  the  possible 
fortunes  of  the  poor  old  Instrument-maker. 

And  now  a  surprise  occurred,  so  overwhelming  and 
terrific  tluit  Captain  Cuttle,  unsupported  by  the  presence 
of  Bunsby,  must  have  sunk  beneath  it,  and  been  a  lost 
man  from  that  fatal  hour. 

How  the  captain,  even  in  the  satisfaction  of  admitting 
such  a  guest,  could  have  only  shut  the  door,  and  not 
locked  it,  of  which  negligence  he  was  undoubtedly 
guilty,  is  one  of  those  questions  that  must  forever  re- 
main mere  points  of  speculation,  or  vague  charges 
against  destiny.  But  by  that  unlocked  door,  at  this 
quiet  moment,  did  the  fell  MacStinger  dash  into  the 
parlor,  bringing  Alexander  MacStinger  in  her  parental 
ftrmh,  and  confusion  and  vengeance  (not  to  mention  Ju- 
liana MacStinger,  and  the  sweet  child's  brother,  Charlea 
MacStinger,  popularly  known  about  the  scenes  of  his 
youthful  sports,  as  Chowley)  in  her  train.  She  came 
BO  swiftly  and  so  silently,  like  a  rushing  air  from  the 
neighborhood  of  the  East  India  Docks,  that  Captain 
Cuttle  found  himself  in  the  very  act  of  sitting  looking 
at  her,  before  the  calm  face  with  which  he  had  been 
meditating,  clianged  to  one  of  horror  and  dismay. 

But  the  moment  Captain  Cuttle  understood  the  full 
6xten!  of  his  misfortune,  self-preservation  dictated  an  at 

VOL    HI.  12 


178  DOMBEY  AXD  SOIf. 

tempt  at  flight.  Darting  at  the  little  door  which  openeo 
from  the  parlor  on  the  steep  little  range  of  cellar-steps, 
the  captain  made  a  rush,  head-foreniost,  at  the  latter, 
like  a  man  indifferent  to  bruises  and  contusions,  who 
only  sought  to  hide  himself  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 
In  this  gallant  effort  he  would  probably  have  succeeded, 
but  for  the  affectionate  dispositions  of  Juliana  and  Chow- 
ley,  wlio  pinning  him  by  the  legs  —  one  of  those  dear 
children  holding  on  to  each  —  claimed  him  as  their 
friend,  with  lamentable  cries.  In  the  mean  time,  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  who  never  entered  upon  any  action  of  im- 
portance without  previously  inverting  Alexander  Mac- 
Stinger,  to  bring  him  within  the  range  of  a  brisk  bat- 
tery of  slaps,  and  then  sitting  him  down  to  cool  as  the 
reader  first  beheld  him,  performed  that  solemn  rite,  aa 
if  on  this  occasion  it  were  a  sacrifice  to  the  Furies ;  and 
having  deposited  the  victim  on  the  floor,  made  at  the 
captain  with  a  strength  of  purpose  that  appeared  to 
threaten  scratches  to  the  interposing  Bunsby. 

Tlie  cries  of  the  two  elder  MacStingers,  and  the  wail- 
mg  of  young  Alexander,  who  may  be  said  to  have 
passed  a  piebald  childhood,  forasmuch  as  he  was  black 
in  the  face  during  one  half  of  that  fairy  period  of  exist- 
ence, combined  to  make  this  visitation  the  more  awfuL 
But  when  silence  reigned  again,  and  the  captain,  in  a 
violent  perspiration,  stood  meekly  looking  at  Mrs.  Maf/- 
Stinger,  its  terrors  were  at  their  height. 

"  Oh,  Cap'eii  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cuttle  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger,  making  her  chin  rigid,  and  shaking  it  in  unison 
with  what,  but  for  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  might  be 
described  as  her  fist.  "  Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cut- 
tle, do  you  dare  to  look  me  in  the  face,  and  not  be  struck 
^own  in  the  berth  !  " 


DOMBEV  AND  SON.  17S 

The  captain,  who  looked  anything  but  daring,  feebly 
muttered  "Stand  by!" 

"  Oh  I  was  a  weak  and  trusting  fool  when  I  took  you 
under  my  roof,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  I  was  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Mao- 
Stinger.  "  To  think  of  the  benefits  I've  showered  on 
tliat  man,  and  the  way  in  which  I  brought  my  children 
ap  to  love  and  honor  him  as  if  he  was  a  father  to  'em, 
when  there  a'n't  a  'ousekeeper,  no  nor  a  lodger  in  our 
street,  don't  know  that  I  lost  money  by  that  man,  and 
by  his  guzzlings  and  his  muzzlings  "  —  Mrs.  MacStinger 
used  the  last  word  for  the  joint  sake  of  alliteration  and 
aggravation,  rather  than  for  the  expression  of  any  idea 
—  "  and  when  they  cried  out  one  and  all,  shame  upon 
him  for  putting  upon  an  industrious  woman,  up  early 
and  late  for  the  good  of  her  young  family,  and  keeping 
her  poor  place  so  clean  that  a  individual  might  have  ate 
his^  dinner,  yes,  and  his  tea  too,  if  he  was  so  disposed, 
off  any  one  of  the  floors  or  stairs,  in  spite  of  all  his 
guzzlings  and  his  muzzlings,  such  was  the  care  and 
pains  bestowed  upon  him  !  " 

Mrs.  MacStinger  stopped  to  fetch  her  breath  ;  and 
her  face  flushed  with  triumph  in  this  second  happy  in- 
troduction of  Captain  Cuttle's  muzzlings. 

"  And  he  runs  awa-a-a-ay  !  "  cried  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
with  a  lengthening-out  of  the  last  syllable  that  made 
the  unfortunate  captain  regard  himself  as  the  meanest 
of  men  ;  "  and  keeps  away  a  twelvemonth  !  From  a 
woman  !  Sitch  is  his  conscience  ! '  He  hasn't  the  cour- 
tkge  to  meet  her  hi-i-i-igh ;  '^  long  syllable  again  ;  "  but 
steals  away,  likij  a  felion.  Why,  if  that  baby  of  mine," 
^id  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  sudden  rapidity,  "  was  to 
«ffer  to  go  and  steal  away,  I'd  do  my  duty  as  a  mother 
by  him,  till  he  was  covered  with  wales 


180  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  young  Alexander,  interpreting  this  into  a  posi 
live  promise,  to  be  shortly  redeemed,  tumbled  ovei"  witb 
fear  and  grief,  and  lay  upon  the  floor,  exhibiting  the 
Boles  of  liis  shoes  and  making  such  a  deafening  outcry, 
that  Mrs.  MacStinger  found  it  necessary  to  take  him  up 
in  her  arms,  where  she  quieted  him,  ever  and  anon,  aa 
ho  broke  out  again,  by  a  shake  that  seemed  enough  to 
loosen  his  teeth. 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  a  man  is  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mi*!i. 
MacStinger,  with  a  sharp  stress  on  the  first  syllable 
of  the  captain's  name,  "to  take  on  for  —  and  to  lose 
sleep  for,  and  to  faint  along  of —  and  to  think  dead  for- 
sooth —  and  to  go  up  and  down  the  blessed  town  like  a 
mad  woman,  asking  questions  after !  Oh,  a  pretty  sort 
of  a  man  !  Ha,  ha.  ha,  ha !  He's  worth  all  that  trouble 
and  distress  of  mind,  and  much  more.  TAcU's  nothing, 
bless  you  !  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  severe  reaction  in  her  voice  and  man- 
ner, "  I  wish  to  know  if  you're  a-coming  home." 

The  frightened  captain  looked  into  his  hat,  as  if  he 
saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  put  it  on,  and  give  himself 
up. 

**  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  repeated  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  the 
same  determined  manner,  "  I  wish  to  know  if  you're  a- 
coming  home,  sir." 

The  captain  seemed  quite  ready  to  go,  but  faintly  sug- 
gested something  to  the  effect  of  "  not  making  so  much 
noise  about  it." 

**  Ay,  ay,  ay,"  said  Bunsby,  in  a  soothing  tone.  "  Awast, 
my  lass,  awast ! " 

"  And  who  may  you  be,  if  you  please  ! "  retorted  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  chaste  loftiness.  *'  Did  you  ever  lo<lge 
%»  Number  Nine,  Brig-place,  sir?     My  memory  may  b** 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  181 

bad,  but  not  with  me,  I  think.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Jolt 
Bon  lived  at  Number  Nine  before  me,  and  perhaps  you're 
mistaking  me  lor  her.  That  is  my  only  ways  of  ac- 
counting for  your  familiarity,  sir." 

"  Come,  come,  my  lass,  awast,  awast !  "  said  Bunsby. 

Captain  Cuttle  could  hardly  believe  it,  even  of  tbia 
great  man,  though  he  saw  it  done  with  his  waking  eyes; 
but  Bunsby,  advancing  boldly,  put  his  shaggy  blue  arm 
round  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  so  softened  her  by  his  magic 
way  of  doing  it,  and  by  these  few  words  —  he  said  no 
more  —  that  she  melted  into  tears,  after  looking  upon 
him  for  a  few  moments,  and  observed  that  a  child  might 
conquer  her  now,  she  was  so  low  in  her  courage. 

Speechless  and  utterly  amazed,  the  captain  saw  him 
gradually  persuade  this  inexorable  woman  into  the  shop, 
return  for  rum  and  water  and  a  candle,  take  them  to  her, 
and  pacify  her  without  appearing  to  utter  one  word. 
Presently  he  looked  in  with  his  pilot-coat  on,  and  said, 
"  Cuttle,  I'm  a-going  to  act  as  convoy  home  ; "  and  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  more  to  his  confusion  than  if  he  had  been 
put  in  irons  himself,  for  safe  transport  to  Brig-place,  saw 
the  family  pacifically  filing  off,  with  Mrs.  MacStinger  at 
their  head.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  take  down  hia 
canister,  and  stealthily  convey  some  money  into  the 
hands  of  Juliana  MacStinger,  his  former  favorite,  and 
Chowley,  who  had  the  claim  upon  him  that  he  was  nat- 
urally of  a  maritime  build,  before  the  Midshipman  was 
abandoned  by  them  all;  and  Bunsby,  whispering  that 
he'd  carry  on  smart,  and  hail  Ned  Cuttle  again  before  he 
went  aboard,  shut  the  door  upon  himself,  as  the  last 
member  of  the  party. 

Some  uneasy  ideas  that  he  must  be  walking  in  hia 
sleep,  or  that  he  had  been  troubled  with  phantoms,  and 


Ib2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

not  a  family  of  flesh  and  blood,  beset  the  cap.ain  at  first, 
when  he  went  back  to  the  little  parlor,  and  found  himself 
alone.  Illimitable  faith  in,  and  immeasurable  admira- 
tion of,  the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  succeededj 
and  thi'ew  the  captain  into  a  wondering  trance. 

Still,  as  time  wore  on,  and  Bunsby  failed  to  reapi)ear, 
the  captain  began  to  entertain  uncomfortable  doubts  oi" 
another  kind.  Whether  Bunsby  had  been  artfully  de« 
ooyed  to  Brig-place,  and  was  there  detained  in  safe  cus- 
tody as  hostage  for  his  friend ;  in  which  case  it  would 
become  the  captain,  as  a  man  of  honor,  to  release  him, 
by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  liberty.  Whether  he  had 
been  attacked  and  def<3ated  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and 
was  ashamed  to  show  himself  after  his  discomfiture. 
Whether  Mrs.  MacStinger,  thinking  better  of  it,  in  the 
uncertainty  of  her  temper,  had  turned  back  to  board  the 
Mid3hipraan  again,  and  Bunsby,  pretending  to  conduct 
her  by  a  short  cut,  was  endeavoring  to  lose  the  family 
amid  the  wilds  and  savage  places  of  the  city.  Above  all, 
what  it  would  behoove  him.  Captain  Cuttle,  to  do,  in  case 
of  his  hearing  no  more,  either  of  the  MacStingers  or  of 
Bunsby,  which,  in  these  wonderful  and  unforeseen  con- 
junctions of  events,  might  possibly  happen. 

He  debated  all  this  until  he  was  tired  ;  and  still  no 
Bunsby.  He  made  up  his  bed  under  the  counter,  all 
ready  for  turning  in ;  and  still  no  Bunsby.  At  length, 
when  tke  captain  had  given  him  up,  for  that  night,  at 
least,  and  had  begun  to  undress,  the  sound  of  approach- 
ing wheels  was  heard,  and,  stopping  at  the  door,  waa 
succeeded  by  Bunsby's  hail. 

The  captain  trembled  to  think  that  Mrs.  MacStinger 
was  not  to  be  got  rid  of,  and  had  been  brought  back  in  a 
«oach. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  183 

Bui  no.  Bunsby  was  accompanied  by  nothing  but 
a  large  box,  which  he  hauled  into  the  shop  wit!i  his  own 
hands,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  hauled  in,  sat  upon.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  knew  it  for  the  chest  he  had  left  at  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger's  house,  and  looking,  candle  in  hand,  at  Bunsbj 
more  attentively,  believed  that  he  was  three  sheets  in 
the  wind,  or,  in  plain  words,  drunk.  It  was  difficult 
however,  to  be  sure  of  this  ;  the  commander  having  no 
trace  of  expression  in  his  face  when  sober. 

"  Cuttle,"  said  the  commander,  getting  off  the  chest, 
Rnd  opening  the  lid,  "  are  these  here  your  traps  ? " 

Captain  Cuttle  looked  in  and  identified  his  property. 

"  Done  pretty  taut  and  trim,  hey,  shipmet  ? "  said 
Bunsby. 

The  grateful  and  bewildered  captain  grasped  him  by 
the  hand,  and  was  launching  into  a  reply  expressive  of 
his  astonished  feelings,  when  Bunsby  disengaged  himself 
by  a  jerk  of  his  wrist,  and  seemed  to  make  an  effort  to 
wink  with  his  revolving  eye,  the  only  effect  of  which 
attempt,  in  his  condition,  was  nearly  to  overbalance  him. 
He  then  abruptly  opened  the  door,  and  shot  away  to 
rejoin  the  Cautious  Clara  with  all  speed  —  supposed  to 
be  his  invariable  custom,  whenever  he  considered  he  had 
made  a  point. 

As  it  was  not  his  hv-mor  to  be  often  sought.  Captain 
Cuttle  decided  not  to  go  or  send  to  him  next  day,  or 
until  he  should  make  his  gracious  pleasure  known  in 
such  wise,  or  failing  that,  until  some  little  time  should 
have  elapsed.  The  captain,  therefore,  renewed  his  soli- 
tary life  next  morning,  and  thought  profoundly,  many 
mornings,  noons,  and  nights,  of  old  Sol  Gills,  and  Buns- 
by's  sentiments  concerning  him,  and  the  hopes  there  were 
rf  his  return.     Much  of  such  thinking  strengthened  Cap- 


184  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tain  CuUle's  hopes ;  and  he  humored  them  and  himself 
by  watching  for  the  Instrument-maker  at  the  door  as  he 
ventured  to  do  now,  in  his  strange  liberty —  and  setting 
his  chair  in  its  place,  and  arranging  the  little  parlor  as  it 
used  to  be,  in  case  he  should  come  home  unexpcxjtedly. 
He  likewise,  in  his  thoughtfulness,  took  down  a  ceitain 
little  miniature  of  Walter  as  a  schoolboy,  from  its  ao- 
customed  nail,  lest  it  should  shock  the  old  man  on  his 
return.  The  captain  had  his  presentiments,  too,  some- 
times, that  he  would  come  on  such  a  day  ;  and  one  par> 
ticular  Sunday,  even  ordered  a  double  allowance  of  din- 
ner, he  was  so  sanguine.  But  come,  old  Solomon  did 
not ;  and  still  the  neighbors  noticed  how  the  seafaring 
man  in  the  glazed  hat,  stood  at  the  shop-door  of  an  even* 
iDg,  looking  up  and  down  the  street. 


DOMBEY  ANl)  SOK.  185 


CHAPTER  XL. 


DOMESTIC   RELATIONS. 


It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  a  man  of  Mr. 
I)om  bey's  mood,  opposed  to  such  a  spirit  as  he  had 
raised  against  himself,  should  be  softened  in  the  im- 
perious asperity  of  his  temper ;  or  that  the  cold  hard 
armor  of  pride  in  which  he  lived  encased,  should  be 
made  more  flexible  by  constant  collision  with  haughty 
scorn  and  defiance.  It  is  the  curse  of  such  a  nature  — 
it  is  a  main  part  of  the  heavy  retribution  on  itself  it 
bears  within  itself —  that  while  deference  and  concession 
swell  its  evil  qualities,  and  are  the  food  it  grows  upon, 
resistance,  and  a  questioning  of  its  exacting  claims,  foster 
it  too,  no  less.  The  evil  that  is  in  it  finds  equally  ita 
means  of  growth  and  propagation  in  opposites.  It  draws 
support  and  life  from  sweets  and  bitters ;  bowed  do'^rn 
before,  or  unacknowledged,  it  still  enslaves  the  breast  in 
which  it  has  its  throne  ;  and,  worshipped  or  rejected,  ia 
as  hard  a  master  as  the  Devil  in  dark  fables. 

Towards  his  first  wife,  Mr.  Dorabey,  in  his  cold  and 
iofty  arrogance,  had  borne  himself  like  the  removed 
being  he  almost  conceived  himself  to  be.  He  had  been 
•*  Mr.  Dombey  "  with  her  when  she  first  saw  him,  and  he 
was  "Mr.  Dombey"  when  she  died.  He  had  asserted 
his  greatness  during  their  whole  married  life,  and  she 
had  meekly  recognized  it.     He  had  kept  his  distant  seal 


186  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  state  on  the  top  of  his  throne,  and  she  her  hurabla 
station  on  its  lowest  step ;  and  much  good  it-  had  done 
him,  so  to  live  in  solitary  bondage  to  his  one  idea.  He 
had  imagined  that  the  proud  character  of  his  second  wife 
would  have  been  added  to  his  own  —  would  have  merged 
into  it,  and  exalted  his  greatness.  He  had  pictured  him- 
self haughtier  than  ever,  with  Edith's  haughtiness  sub- 
servient to  his.  He  had  never  entertained  the  possibil- 
ity of  its  arraying  itself  against  him.  And  now,  when 
he  found  it  rising  in  his  path  at  every  step  and  turn  of 
his  daily  life,  fixing  its  cold,  defiant,  and  contemptuous 
face  Upon  him,  this  pride  of  his,  instead  of  withering,  or 
hanging  down  its  head  beneath  the  shock,  put  forth  new 
shoots,  became  more  concentrated  and  intense,  more 
gloomy,  sullen,  irksome,  and  unyielding,  than  it  had  ever 
been  before. 

Who  wears  such  armor,  too,  bears  with  him  ever  an- 
other heavy  retribution.  It  is  of  proof  against  concilia- 
tion, love,  and  confidence ;  against  all  gentle  sympathy 
from  without,  all  trust,  all  tenderness,  all  soft  emotion ; 
but  to  deep  stabs  in  the  self-love,  it  is  as  vulnerable  as 
the  bare  breast  to  steel ;  and  such  tormenting  festers 
rankle  there,  as  follow  on  no  other  wounds,  no,  though 
dealt  with  the  mailed  hand  of  pride  itself,  on  weaker 
pride,  disarmed  and  thrown  down. 

Such  wounds  were  his.  He  felt  them  sharply,  in  the 
Holitude  of  his  old  rooms ;  whither  he  now  began  often 
to  retire  again,  and  pass  long  solitary  hours.  It  seemed 
hts  fate  to  be  ever  proud  and  powerful ;  ever  humbled 
and  powerless  where  he  would  be  most  strong.  Who 
Beemed  fated  to  work  out  that  doom  ? 

Who  ?  Who  was  it  who  could  win  his  ^ife  as  she  had 
won  his  bpy  I      Who  was  it  who  had  shown  him  that 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  187 

new  victory,  as  he  sat  in  the  dark  corner !  "Who  was 
it  whose  least  word  did  what  his  utmost  moans  could 
not  ?  Who  was  it  who,  unaided  by  his  love,  regard,  or 
notice,  thrived  and  grew  beautiful  when  those  so  aided 
died  !  Who  could  it  be,  but  the  same  child  at  whom 
he  had  often  glanced  uneasily  in  her  motherless  infancy, 
with  a  kind  of  dread,  lest  he  might  come  to  hate  her ; 
and  of  whom  his  foreboding  was  fulfilled,  for  he  did  hate 
her  in  his  heart. 

Yes,  and  he  would  have  it  hatred,  and  he  made  it 
hatred,  though  some  sparkles  of  the  light  in  which  she 
had  appeared  before  him  on  the  memorable  night  of  his 
return  home  with  his  bride,  occasionally  hung  about  her 
still.  He  knew  now  that  she  was  beautiful ;  he  did  not 
dispute  that  she  was  graceful  and  winning,  and  that  in 
the  bright  dawn  of  her  womanhood  she  had  come  upon 
him,  a  surprise.  But  he  turned  even  this  against  her. 
In  his  sullen  and  unwholesome  brooding,  the  unhappy 
man,  with  a  dull  perception  of  his  alienation  from  all 
hearts,  and  a  vague  yearning  for  what  he  had  all  his  life 
repelled,  made  a  distorted  picture  of  his  rights  and 
wrongs,  and  justified  himself  with  it  against  her.  The 
worthier  she  promised  to  be  of  him,  the  greater  claim  he 
was  disposed  to  antedate  upon  her  duty  and  submission. 
When  had  she  ever  shown  him  duty  and  submission  ? 
Did  she  grace  his  life  —  or  Edith's?  Had  her  attrac- 
tions been  manifested  first  to  him  —  or  Edith  ?  Why, 
he  and  she  had  never  been,  from  her  birth,  like  father 
and  child!  They  had  always  been  estranged.  She 
had  crossed  him  every  way  and  everywhere.  She  was 
leagued  against  him  now.  Her  very  beauty  softmed 
oatures  that  were  obdurate  to  him,  and  infulted  him 
with  %n  unnatural  triumph. 


188  DJMBEY  AND  SON. 

It  may  have  been  that  in  all  this  there  were  mutter^ 
ings  of  an  awakened  feeling  in  his  breast,  however 
EeUishly  aroused  by  his  position  of  disadvantage,  in  com- 
parison with  what  she  might  have  made  his  life.  But 
he  silenced  the  distant  thunder  with  the  rolling  of  his 
Eca  of  pride.  He  would  bear  nothing  but  his  pride.  And 
in  his  pride,  a  heap  of  inconsistency,  and  misery,  and 
self-inflicted  torment,  he  hated  her. 

To  the  moody,  stubborn,  sullen  demon,  that  possessed 
him,  his  wife  opposed  her  different  pride  in  its  full  force. 
They  never  could  have  led  a  happy  life  together ;  but 
nothing  could  have  made  it  more  unhappy,  than  the  wil- 
ful and  determined  warfare  of  such  elements.  His  pride 
was  set  upon  maintaining  his  magnificent  supremacy,  and 
forcing  recognition  of  it  from  her.  She  would  have  been 
racked  to  death,  and  turned  but  her  haughty  glance  of 
calm  inflexible  disdain  upon  him,  to  the  last.  Such  re- 
cognition from  Edith !  He  little  knew  through  what  a 
storm  and  struggle  she  had  been  driven  onward  to  the 
crowning  honor  of  his  hand.  He  little  knew  how  much 
she  thought  she  had  conceded,  when  she  suffered  him  to 
call  her  wife. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  resolved  to  show  her  that  he  was 
supreme.  There  must  be  no  will  but  his.  Proud  he 
desired  that  she  should  be,  but  she  must  be  proud  for, 
not  against  him.  As  he  eat  alone,  hardeni?ig,  he  would 
oAen  hear  her  go  out  and  come  home,  treading  the  round 
of  London  life  with  no  more  heed  of  his  liking  or  dislik' 
ing,  pleasure  or  displeasure,  than  if  he  had  been  her 
groom.  Her  cold  supreme  indifference  —  his  own  un- 
questioned attribute  usurped  —  stung  him  more  than 
any  other  kind  of  treatment  could  have  done ;  and  he  de- 
termined to  bend  her  to  his  magnificent  and  stately  wilL 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  189 

He  had  been  long  communing  with  these  thoughts, 
when  one  night  he  sought  her  in  her  own  apartment, 
after  he  had  heard  her  return  home  late.  She  was 
alone,  in  her  brilliant  dress,  and  had  but  that  m^/ment 
come  from  her  mother's  room.  Her  face  was  melan- 
choly and  pensive,  when  he  came  upon  her ;  but  it 
marked  him  at  the  door ;  for,  glancing  at  the  mirror 
before  it,  he  saw  immediately,  as  in  a  picture- frame, 
the  knitted  brow,  and  darkened  beauty  that  he  knew 
so  well. 

"  Mrs.  Dorabey,"  he  said,  entering,  "  I  must  beg  leave 
to  have  a  few  words  with  you." 

"  To-morrow,"  she  replied. 

"  There  is  no  time  like  the  present,  madam,"  he  re- 
turned. "  You  mistake  your  position.  I  am  used  to 
choose  my  own  times ;  not  to  have  them  chosen  for  me. 
I  think  you  scarcely  understand  who  and  what  I  am, 
Mrs.  Dombey." 

"  I  think,"  she  answered,  "  that  I  understand  you  vei^ 
well." 

She  looked  upon  him  as  she  said  so,  and  folding  her 
wliite  arms,  sparkling  with  gold  and  gems,  upon  her 
swelling  breast,  turned  away  her  eyes. 

If  she  had  been  less  handsome,  and  less  stately  in  her 
cold  composure,  she  might  not  have  had  the  power  of 
impressing  him  with  the  sense  of  disadvantage  that  pene- 
trated  through  his  utmost  pride.  But  she  had  the  power. 
and  he  felt  it  keenly.  He  glanced  round  the  room  :  saw 
how  the  splendid  means  of  personal  adornment,  and  the 
luxuries  of  dress,  were  s<fattered  here  and  there,  and  dis- 
regarded ;  not  in  mere  caprice  and  carelessness  (or  so  he 
thought),  but  in  a  steadfast,  haughty,  disregard  of  costly 
hings ;  and  felt  it  more  aild  more.     Chapleis  of  fiowerai 


190  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

plume i  of  feathers,  jewels,  laces,  silks,  and  satins  ;  look 
•k'here  he  would,  he  saw  riches,  despised,  poured  out,  and 
made  of  no  account.  The  very  diamonds  —  a  marriage 
gift  —  that  rose  and  fell  impatiently  upon  her  bosom, 
geemed  to  pant  to  break  the  chain  that  clasped  thcra 
round  her  neck,  and  roll  down  on  the  floor  where  she 
might  tread  upon  them. 

He  felt  his  disadvantage,  and  he  showed  it.  Solemn 
and  strange  among  this  wealth  of  color  and  voluptuous 
glitter,  strange  and  consti-ained  towards  its  haughty  mis- 
tress, whose  repellant  beauty  it  repeated,  and  presented 
all  around  him,  as  in  so  many  fragments  of  a  mirror, 
he  was  conscious  of  embarrassment  and  awkwardness. 
Nothing  that  ministered  to  her  disdainful  self-possession 
could  fail  to  gall  him.  Galled  and  in-itated  with  him- 
self, he  sat  down,  and  went  on  in  no  improved  humor : 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  it«is  very  necessary  that  there  should 
be  some  understanding  arrived  at  between  us.  Your 
conduct  does  not  please  me,  madam." 

She  merely  glanced  at  him  again,  and  again  averted 
her  eyes;  but  she  might  have  spoken  for  an  hour,  and 
expressed  less. 

"  I  repeat,  INIrs.  Dombey,  does  not  please  me.  I  have 
already  taken  occasion  to  request  that  it  may  be  cor- 
rected.    I  now  insist  upon  it." 

"  You  chose  a  fitting  occasion  for  your  first  remon- 
Btrance,  sir,  and  you  adopt  a  fitting  manner,  and  a  fitting 
word  for  your  second.      Jom  insist !    To  me!" 

"Madam,*'  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  most  oflTensive 
air  of  state,  "  I  have  made  you  my  wife.     You  bear  m  • 
name.     You    are  associated   with   my  position   and   xc 
reputation.     I  will  not  say  that  the  world  in  general  m^ 
be  disposed  to  think  you  hoiiored  by  that  association  ;  b  . 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  i*. 

I  will  say  that  I  am  accustomed  to  '  insist,'  to  my  con- 
nection,^ and  dependents." 

"  Whicli  may  you  be  pleased  to  consider  me  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Possibly  I  may  think  that  my  wife  should  pai  take  — 
or  does  partake,  and  cannot  help  herself —  of  both  chju 
actors,  Mrs.  Dombey." 

She  bent  her  eyes  upon  him  steadily,  and  set  tei 
trembling  lips.  He  saw  her  bosom  throb,  and  saw  hei 
face  flush  and  turn  white.  All  this  he  could  know,  and 
did  :  but  he  could  not  know  that  one  word  was  whisper- 
ing in  the  deep  recesses  of  her  heart,  to  keep  her  quiet ; 
and  that  the  word  was  Florence. 

Blind  idiot,  rushing  to  a  precipice  !  He  thought  sho 
stood  in  awe  of  him  ! 

"You  are  too  expensive,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  You  are  extravagant.  You  waste  a  great  deal  of 
money  —  or  what  would  be  a  great  deal  in  the  pockets 
of  most  gentlemen  —  in  cultivating  a  kind  of  society  that 
is  useless  to  me,  and,  indeed,  that  upon  the  whole  is 
disagreeable  to  me.  I  have  to  insist  upon  a  total  change 
in  all  these  respects.  I  know  that  in  the  novelty  of 
possessing  a  tithe  of  such  means  as  foi'tune  has  placed 
at  your  disposal,  ladies  are  apt  to  run  into  a  sudden 
extreme.  There  has  been  more  than  enough  of  thai 
extreme.  I  beg  that  Mrs.  Granger's  very  different  ex- 
periences may  now  come  to  the  instruction  of  Mrs.  Dora- 
bey." 

Still  the  fixed  look,  the  trembling  lips,  the  throbbing 
breast,  the  face  now  crimson  and  now  white  ;  and  still 
the  deep  whisper  Florence,  Florence,  speaking  to  hei 
ji  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

His  insolence  of  self-importance  dilated  as  he  saw  this 


192  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

alteration  in  her.  Swollen  no  less  by  her  past  scorn  of 
him,  and  bis  so  recent  feeling  of  disadvantage,  than  by 
her  present  submission  (as  he  took  it  to  be),  it  became 
too  mighty  for  his  breast,  and  burst  all  bounds.  Why, 
who  could  long  resist  his  lofty  will  and  pleasure !  II« 
had  resolved  to  conquer  her,  and  look  here ! 

^  You  will  further  please,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey 
in  a  tone  of  sovereign  command,  "  to  understand  distinctly 
that  I  am  to  be  deferred  to  and  obeyed.  That  I  must 
have  a  positive  show  and  confession  of  defei'ence  before 
the  world,  madam.  I  am  used  to  this.  I  require  it  as 
my  right.  In  short  I  will  have  it.  I  consider  it  no  un- 
reasonable return  for  the  worldly  advancement  that  has 
befallen  you  ;  and  I  believe  nobody  will  be  surprised, 
either  at  its  being  required  from  you,  or  at  your  making 
it.  —  To  me  —  to  me ! "  he  added,  with  emphasis.      ' 

No  word  from  her.  No  change  in  her.  Her  eyes 
upon  him. 

"  I  have  learnt  from  your  mother,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  with  magisterial  impoi'tance,  "  what  nc 
doubt  you  know,  namely,  that  Brighton  is  recommended 
for  her  health.     Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good  "  — 

She  changed  suddenly.  Her  face  and  bosom  glowed 
as  if  the  red  light  of  an  angry  sunset  had  been  flimg 
upon  them.  Not  unobservant  of  the  change,  and  putting 
his  own  interpretation  upon  it,  Mr.  Dombey  resumed : 

"  Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good  as  to  go  down  and 
fiecure  a  house  there,  for  a  time.  On  the  return  of  the 
establishment  to  London,  I  shall  take  such  steps  for  ita 
better  management  as  I  consider  necessary.  One  of 
iheste,  will  be  the  engagement  at  Brighton  (if  it  is  to  be 
3fFected),  of  a  very  respectable  reduced  pei^son  there,  a 
Mrs,  Pipchin,  formerly  employed  in  a  situation  of  trust 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  19S» 

m  my  r'atnily,  to  act  as  house-keeper.  An  establishmeul 
like  this,  presided  over  but  nominally,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
requires  a  competent  bead." 

She  had  changed  her  attitude  before  he  arrived  at 
these  words,  and  now  sat  —  still  looking  at  him  fixedly 
—  turning  a  bracelet  round  and  round  upon  her  arm ; 
not  winding  it  about  with  a  hght  womanly  touch,  but 
pressing  and  dragging  it  over  the  smooth  skin,  until  the 
white  limb  showed  a  bar  of  red. 

"I  observed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey — "and  this  concludes 
what  I  deem  it  necessary  to  say  to  you  at  present,  Mrs. 
Dombey  —  I  observed  a  moment  ago,  madam,  tbat  my 
allusion  to  Mr.  Carker  was  received  in  a  peculiar  man- 
ner. On  the  occasion  of  my  happening  to  point  out  to 
you,  before  that  confidential  agent,  the  objection  I  had  to 
your  mode  of  receiving  my  visitors,  you  were  pleased 
to  object  to  his  presence.  You  will  have  to  get  the  bet- 
ter of  that  objection,  madam,  and  to  accustom  yourself  to 
it  very  probably  on  many  similar  occasions ;  unless  you 
adopt  the  remedy  which  is  in  your  own  hands,  of  giving 
me  no  cause  of  complaint.  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, who,  after  the  emotion  he  had  just  seen,  set  great 
store  by  this  means  of  reducing  his  proud  wife,  and  who 
was  perhaps  sufficiently  wiUing  to  exhibit  his  power  to 
that  gentleman  in  a  new  and  triumphant  aspect,  "Mr. 
Carker  being  in  my  confidence,  Mrs.  Dombey,  may  very 
well  be  in  yours  to  such  an  extent.  I  hope,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey," he  continued,  after  a  few  moments,  during  which, 
m  his  increasing  haughtiness,  he  had  improved  on  his 
idea,  "  I  may  not  find  it  necessary  ever  to  intrust  Mr. 
^Jarker  with  any  message  of  objection  or  remonstrance 
to  you  ;  but  as  it  would  be  derogatory  to  my  position  and 
•reputation  to  be  frequently  holding  trivial  disputes  wiili 
vou  in.  U 


194  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

A  lady  upon  whom  I  have  conferred  the  highest  distino 
don  that  it  is  in  ray  power  to  bestow,  I  shall  not  scruple 
to  avail  myself  of  his  services  if  I  see  occasion." 

"  And  now,"  he  thought,  rising  in  his  moral  mag- 
nificence, and  rising  a  stiffer  and  more  impenetrable  man 
than  ever,  "  she  knows  me  and  my  resolution." 

The  hand  that  had  so  pressed  the  bracelet  was  laid 
heavily  upon  her  breast,  but  she  looked  at  him  still,  with 
an  unaltered  face,  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Wait !     For  God's  sake !     I  must  speak  to  you." 

Why  did  she  not,  and  what  was  the  inward  struggle 
that  rendered  her  incapable  of  diinj  so,  for  minutes, 
while,  in  the  strong  constraint  she  put  upon  her  face,  it 
was  as  fixed  as  any  statue's  —  looking  upon  him  with 
neither  yielding  nor  unyielding,  liking  nor  hatred,  pride 
nor  humility :  nothing  but  a  searching  gaze. 

"  Did  I  ever  tempt  you  to  seek  my  band?  Did  I  evei 
use  any  art  to  win  you  ?  Was  I  ever  more  conciliating 
to  you  when  you  pursued  me,  than  I  have  been  since  our 
marriage  ?     Was  I  ever  other  to  you  than  I  am  ?  " 

"  It  is  wholly  unnecessary,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  to  enter  upon  such  discussions." 

"  Did  you  think  I  loved  you  ?  Did  you  know  I  did 
not  ?  Did  you  ever  care,  man  !  for  my  heart,  or  propose 
to  yourself  to  win  the  worthless  thing  ?  Was  there  any 
poor  pretence  of  any  in  our  bargain  ?  Upon  your  side, 
or  on  mine  ?  " 

"These  questions,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "are  all  wide 
s>f  the  purpose,  madam." 

She  moved  between  him  and  the  door  to  prevent  hia 
(joing  away,  and  drawing  her  majestic  figure  to  its  height, 
looked  steadily  upon  him  still. 

"  You  answer  each  of  them.     You  answer  me  before  I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  195 

BpeaK,  I  see.  How  can  you  help  it ;  you  who  know  th< 
miserable  truth  as  weH  as  I  ?  Now,  tell  me.  If  I  loved 
you  to  devotion,  could  I  do  more  than  render  up  my 
whole  will  and  being  to  you,  as  you  have  just  demanded? 
If  my  heart  were  pure  and  all  untried,  and  you  its  idoL 
could  you  ask  more  ;  could  you  have  more  ?  " 

**  Possibly  not,  madam,"  he  returned  coolly. 

"  You  know  how  different  I  am.  You  see  me  looking 
on  you  now,  and  you  can  read  the  warmth  of  passion  for 
you  that  is  breathing  in  my  face."  Not  a  curl  of  the 
proud  lip,  not  a  flash  of  the  dark  eye,  nothing  but  the 
same  intent  and  searching  look,  accompanied  these  words. 
"  You  know  my  general  history.  You  have  spoken  of 
my  mother.  Do  you  think  you  can  degrade,  or  bend,  or 
break  me  to  submission  and  obedience  ?  " 

Mr.  Dorabey  smiled,  as  he  might  have  smiled  at  an 
inquiry  whether  he  thought  he  could  raise  ten  thousand 
pounds. 

"  If  there  is  anything  unusual  here,"  she  said,  with  a 
slight  motion  of  her  hand  before  her  brow,  which  did  not 
for  a  moment  flinch  from  its  immovable  and  otherwise 
expressionless  gaze,  "as  I  know  there  are  unusual  feel- 
ings here,"  raising  the  hand  she  pressed  upon  her  bosom, 
and  heavily  rt- turning  it,  "  consider  that  there  is  no  com- 
mon meaning  in  the  appeal  I  am  going  to  make  you. 
Yes,  for  I  am  going ;  "  she  said  it  as  in  prompt  reply  to 
something  in  his  face  ;  "  to  appeal  to  you," 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  slightly  condescending  bend  of 
his  chin  that  rusthid  and  cracked  his  stiff  cravat,  sat 
down  on  a  sofa  that  was  near  him,  to  hear  the  appeal. 

"  If  you  can  believe  that  I  am  of  such  a  nature  now," 
—  ne  fancied  he  saw  tears  glistening  in  hei  eyes,  and  he 
thought,  complacently,  that  he  had  forced  them  from  her. 


196  DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 

though  none  fell  on  her  cheek,  and  she  regarded  him  as 
Bteadily  as  ever,  —  "as  would  naake  what  I  now  saj 
almost  incredible  to  myself,  said  to  any  man  who  had  be- 
come my  husband,  but,  above  all,  said  to  you,  you  may, 
perhaps,  attach  the  greater  Aveight  to  it.  In  the  dark 
end  to  which  we  are  tending,  and  may  come,  we  shall 
not  involve  ourselves  alone  (that  might  -not  be  much), 
but  others." 

Others !  He  knew  at  whom  that  word  pointed,  and 
frowned  heavily. 

"  I  speak  to  you  for  the  sake  of  others.  Also  your 
own  sake ;  and  for  mine.  Since  our  marriage,  you  have 
been  arrogant  to  me  ;  and  I  have  repaid  you  in  kind 
You  have  shown  to  me  and  every  one  around  us,  every 
day  and  hour,  that  you  think  I  am  graced  and  distin- 
g-uished  by  your  alliance.  I  do  not  think  so,  and  have 
shown  that  too.  It  seems  you  do  not  understand,  or  (so 
far  as  your  power  can  go)  intend  that  each  of  us  shall 
take  a  separate  course  ;  and  you  expect  from  me  instead, 
a  homage  you  will  never  have." 

Although  her  face  was  still  the  same,  there  was  em- 
phatic confirmation  of  this  "  Never,"  in  the  very  breath 
she  drew. 

"  I  feel  uo  tenderness  towards  you  ;  that  you  know. 
You  would  care  nothing  for  it,  if  I  did  or  could.  I  know 
as  well  that  you  teel  none  towards  me.  But  we  are 
linked  together ;  and  in  the  knot  that  ties  us,  as  I  have 
said,  others  are  bound  up.  We  must  both  die;  we. are 
both  connected  with  the  dead  already,  each  by  a  Httl-' 
child.     Let   us  forbear." 

Mr  Dombey  took  a  loqg  respiration,  as  if  he  would 
have  said,  Oh  !  was  this  all ! 

"  There  is  no  wealth,"  she  went  on,  turning  pnler  as 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  197 

she  watched  hira,  while  her  eyes  grew  jH  more  lustrous 
in  their  earnestness,  "that  could  buy  these  words  of  me 
and  the  meaning  that  belongs  to  them.  Once  cast  away 
as  idle  breath,  no  wealth  or  power  o^n  bring  them  back. 
I  mean  them  ;  I  have  weighed  them  ;  and  I  will  be  true 
to  what  I  undertake.  If  you  will  promise  to  forbear  on 
your  part,  I  will  promise  to  forbear  on  mine.  We  aie  a 
most  uidiappy  pair,  in  whom,  from  different  causes,  every 
sentiment  that  blesses  marriage,  or  justifies  it,  is  roote«l 
out ;  but  in  the  course  of  time,  some  friendship,  or  some 
fitness  for  each  other,  may  arise  between  us.  I  will  try 
to  hope  so,  if  you  will  make  the  endeavor  too ;  and  I 
will  look  forward  to  a  better  and  a  happier  use  of  age 
than   I  have  made  of  youth  or  prime." 

Throughout  she  had  spoken  in  a  low  plain  voice,  that 
neither  rose  nor  fell ;  ceasing,  she  dropped  the  hand  with 
whicli  she  had  enforced  herself  to  be  so  passionless  and 
distinct,  but  not  the  eyes  with  which  she~~had  so  steadily 
observed  him, 

"  Madam,"  said  Mi*.  Dombey,  with  his  utmost  dignity, 
"  I  cannot  entertain  any  proposal  of  this  extraordinary 
nature." 

She  looked  at  him  yet,  without  the  least  change. 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  as  he  spoke, 
"consent  to  temporize  or  treat  with  you,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
upon  a  subject  as  to  which  yon  are  in  possession  of  my 
opinions  and  expectations.  1  have  stated  my  ultiimxlum^ 
raadam,  and  have  only  to  request  your  very  seriou.^  at- 
tention to  it." 

To  see  the  face  change  to  its  old  expression,  deepened 
vu  intensity  !  To  see  the  eyes  droop  as  from  some  mean 
and  odious  oltjeitt!  To  see  the  lighting  of  the  haughty 
brow       To  se^  scorn,  nnger,  indignation,  and  abhorrenc* 


198  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Starting  into  sight,  and  the  pale  blank  earnesmess  vani-sli 
like  a  mist !  He  could  not  choose  but  look,  although  he 
looked  to  his  dismay.      " 

"  Go,  sir  !  "  she  said,  pointing  with  an  imperious  hand 
towards  the  door.  "Our  first  and  last  confidence  is  at 
an  end.  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to  each  other 
than  we  are  henceforth." 

"  I  sliall  take  my  rightful  course,  madam,"  said  IVIr. 
Dombey,  "  undeterred,  you  may  be  sure,  by  any  general 
declamation." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and,  without  reply,  sat 
down  before  her  glass. 

"  I  place  my  reliance  on  your  improved  sense  of  duty, 
and  more  conect  feeling,  and  better  reflection,  madam," 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

She  answered  not  one  word.  He  saw  no  more  ex- 
pression of  any  heed  of  him,  in  the  mirror,  than  if  he 
had  been  an  unseen  spider  on  the  wall,  or  beetle  on  tlie 
floor,  or  rather,  than  if  he  had  been  the  one  or  other, 
seen  and  crushed  when  she  last  turned  from  him,  and 
forgotten  among  the  ignominious  and  dead  vermin  of 
the  ground. 

He  looked  back,  as  he  went  out  at  the  door,  upon  the 
well-lighted  and  luxurious  room,  the  beautiful  and  glitter^ 
ing  objects  everywhere  displayed,  the  shape  of  Edith  io 
its  rich  dress  seated  before  her  glass,  and  the  face  of 
Edith  as  the  glass  presented  it  to  him  ;  and  betook  him- 
Belf  to  his  old  chamber  of  cogitnlion,  carrying  away  with, 
him  a  vivid  picture  in  his  mind  of  all  these  things,  and 
a  rambling  and  unaccountable  speculation  (such  as  som(^ 
Uraes  comes  into  a  man's  head)  how  they  would  all  look 
when  he  saw  them  next. 

For  the  rest,  Mr.  Dombey  was  very  taciturn,  and  very 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  199 

dignified,  and   very  confideni  of  carrying  out  hh  pur 
pose ;  and  remained  so. 

He  did  not  design  accompanying  the  family  to 
Brighton  ;  but  he  graciously  informed  Cleopatra  at 
breakfast,  on  the  morning  of  departure,  which  arrived 
a  day  or  two  afterwards,  that  he  might  be  expected 
down,  soon.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost  in  getting 
Cleopatra  to  any  place  recommended  as  being  salutary ; 
for,  indeed,  she  seemed  upon  the  wane,  and  turning  of 
the  earth,  earthy. 

Without  having  undergone  any  decided  second  attack 
of  her  malady,  the  old  woman  seemed  to  have  crawled 
backward  in  her  recovery  from  the  first.  She  was  more 
lean  and  shrunken,  more  uncerlain  in  her  imbecility, 
and  made  stranger  confusions  in  her  mind  and  memory. 
Among  other  symptoms  of  this  last  affliction,  she  fell 
into  the  habit  of  confounding  the  names  of  her  two  sons- 
in-law,  the  living  and  the  deceased ;  and  in  general  called 
Ml'.  Dombey,  either  "  Grangeby,"  or  "  Domber,"  or  in- 
differently, both. 

But  siie  was  youthful,  very  youthful  still :  and  in  her 
youthfulness  appeared  at  breakfast,  before  going  away,  in 
a  new  bonnet,  made  express,  and  a  travelling  robe  that 
was  embroidered  and  braided  like  an  old  baby's.  It  was 
not  easy  to  put  her  into  a  fly-away  bonnet  now,  or  to 
keep  tiie  bonnet  in  its  place  on  the  back  of  her  poor 
nodding  h(?ad,  when  it  was  got  on.  In  this  instance,  it 
had  not  only  the  extraneous  effect  of  being  always  on  one 
side,  but  of  being  perpetually  tapped  on  the  crown  by 
Flowers  the  maid,  who  attended  in  the  background  dur- 
ing breakfast  to  perform  that  duty. 

"Now  my   dearest  Grangeby,"   said    Mrs.    Skewton, 

you  must  posively  prom,"  she  cut  some  cf  her  wordli 


JfOO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Bbort,  and  cut  out  others  altogether,  "  come  down  very 
goon." 

"  I  said  just  now,  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Doml)ey, 
loudly,  and  laboriously,  *'  that  I  am  coming  in  a  day 
or  two." 

"  Bless  you,  Domber ! " 

Here  the  major,  who  was  come  to  take  leave  of  the 
ladies,  and  who  was  staring  through  his  apoplectic  ey^ 
at  Mrs.  Skewton's  face,  with  the  disinterested  composure 
of  an  immortal  being,  said  : 

"  Begad,  ma'am,  you  don't  ask  old  Joe  to  come !  " 

"  Sterious  wretch,  who's  he  ?  "  lisped  Cleopatra.  But 
a  tap  on  the  bonnet  from  Flowers  seeming  to  jog  her 
memory,  she  added,  "  Oh !  You  mean  yourself,  you 
naughty  creature ! " 

"  Devilish  queer,  sir,"  whispered  the  major  to  Mr. 
Dorabey.  "  Bad  case.  Never  did  wrap  up  enough  ; " 
the  major  being  buttoned  to  the  chin.  "  Why  who 
should  J.  B.  mean  by  Joe,  but  old  Joe  Bagstock  — 
Joseph  —  Your  slave  —  Joe,  ma'am  ?  Here  !  Here's 
tlie  man  !  Here  are  the  Bagstock  bellows,  ma'am ! " 
cried  the  major,  striking  himself  a  sounding  blow  on 
the  chest. 

"My  dearest  Edith  —  Grangeby — it's  most  trordinry 
thing,"  said  Cleopatra,  pettishly,  "  that  Major  "  — 

"  Bagstock  !  J.  B. !  "  cried  the  major,  seeing  that  she 
faltered  for  his  name. 

"Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Cleopatra,  "Edith,  my 
love,  you  know  I  never  could  remember  names  —  what 
was  it?  oh!  —  most  trordinry  thing  that  so  many  people 
want  to  com 3  down  to  see  me.  I'm  not  going  for  long 
I'm  coming  back.  Surely  they  can  wait,  till  I  come 
back !  " 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  201 

Cleopatra  looked  all  round  the  table  as  dhe  said  it,  and 
Appeared  very  uneasy. 

"I  won't  have  visitors  —  really  don't  want  visitors," 
she  said  ;  ''  little  repose  —  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  —  is 
what  I  quire.  No  odious  brutes  must  proach  me  till  I've 
shaken  off  this  numbness ; "  and  in  a  grisly  resumptioo 
of  her  coquettish  ways,  she  made  a  dab  at  the  major 
with  her  fan,  but  overset  Mr.  Dorabey's  breakfast-cup 
instead,  whi'-h  was  in  quite  a  different  direction. 

Then  she  called  for  Withers,  and  charged  him  to  see 
particularly  that  word  was  left  about  some  trivial  altera< 
tions  in  her  room,  which  must  be  all  made  before  she 
came  back,  and  which  must  be  set  about  immediately,  as 
there  was  no  saying  how  soon  she  might  come  back  ;  for 
she  had  a  great  many  engagements,  and  all  sorts  of 
people  to  call  upon.  Withers  received  these  directions 
with  becoming  deference,  and  gave  his  guaranty  for 
their  execution ;  but  when  he  withdrew  a  pace  or  two 
behind  her,  it  appeared  as  if  he  couldn't  help  looking 
strangely  at  the  major,  who  couldn't  help  looking 
strangely  at  Mr.  Dombey,  who  couldn't  help  looking 
strangely  at  Cleopatra,  who  couldn't  help  nodding  her 
bonnet  over  one  eye,  and  rattling  her  knife  and  fork 
upon  her  plate  in  using  them  as  if  she  wore  playing 
castanets. 

Edith  alone  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  aJiy  face  at  the 
table,  and  never  seemed  dismayed  by  anything  hei 
mother  said  or  did.  She  listened  to  her  disjointed  talk, 
or  at  least,  turned  her  head  towards  her  when  addressed; 
refjlied  in  a  few  low  words  when  necessary ;  and  some- 
limes  stopped  her  when  ^le  was  rambling,  or  brought 
tier  thoughts  back  with  a  monosyllable,  to  the  point  from 
vhich  they  had  strayed.     The  mother,  however  unsteady 


202  DOMBEY-AND  SOST. 

in  other  things,  was  constant  in  this  —  that  she  WM 
ftlwajs  observant  of  her.  She  woald  look  at  the  beauti* 
ful  face,  in  its  naarble  stillness  and  severity,  now  with  a 
kind  of  fearful  admiration  ;  now  in  a  giggling  foolish 
effort  to  move  it  to  a  smile ;  now  with  capricious  tears 
and  jealous  shakings  of  her  head,  as  imagining  herself 
neglected  by  it;  always  with  an  attraction  towards  it, 
ihat  never  fluctuated  like  her  other  ideas,  but  had  con- 
stant possession  of  her.  From  Edith  she  would  some- 
ames  look  at  Florence,  and  back  again  at  Edith,  in  a 
manner  that  was  wild  enough ;  and  sometimes  she  would 
try  to  look  elsewhere,  as  if  to  escape  from  her  daughter's 
face ;  but  back  to  it  she  seemed  forced  to  come,  although 
it  never  sought  hers  unless  sought,  or  troubled  her  with 
one  single  glance. 

The  breakfast  concluded,  Mrs.  Skewton,  affecting  to 
lean  girlishly  upon  the  major's  arm,  bat  heavily  sup- 
ported on  the  other  side  by  Flowers  the  maid,  and 
propped  up  behind  by  Withers  the  page,  was  conducted 
to  the  carriage,  which  was  to  take  her,  Florence,  and 
Edith  to  Brighton. 

"  And  is  Joseph  absolutely  banished  ?  "  said  the  major, 
thrusting  in  his  purple  face  ovej  the  steps.  "  Damme, 
ma'am,  is  Cleopatra  so  hard-hearted  as  to  forbid  her 
faithful  Antony  Bagstock  to  approach  the  presence  ? " 

**  Gio  along ! "  said  Cleopatra,  **  I  can't  bear  you.  Too 
shall  see  me  when  I  come  back,  if  you  are  very  good." 

"  Tell  Joseph,  he  may  live  in  hope,  ma'am,"  said  the 
major ;  "  or  hell  die  in  despair." 

Cleopatra  shuddered  and  leaned  back.  ''Edith,  my 
iear,"  she  said.     «  Tell  him  "  — 

«  Wliat?" 

"  Such  dreadful  words,"  said  Cleopatra.  "  He  uses 
«uch  «Ireadful  words!" 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  203 

Edith  signed  to  him  to  retire,  gave  the  word  to  go  on, 
and  left  the  objectionable  major  to  Mr.  Dombey.  To 
whom  he  returned,  whistling. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  said  the  major,  with  his  hands 
behind  him,  and  his  legs  very  wide  asunder,  "  a  fair 
friend  of  ours  has  removed  to  Queer-street." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  major  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombej. 

•*  I  mean  to  say,  Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  "  that 
you'll  soon  be  an  orphan-in-law." 

Mr.  Dombey  appeared  to  relish  this  waggish  descrip- 
tion of  himself  so  very  little  that  the  major  wound  up 
with  the  horse's  cough,  as  an  expression  of  gravity. 

"  Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  there  is  no  use  in  dis- 
guising a  fact.  Joe  is  blunt,  sir.  That's  his  nature.  If 
you  take  old  Josh  at  all,  you  take  him  as  you  find  him  ; 
and  a  de-villsh  rusty,  old  rasper,  of  a  close-toothed,  J.  3. 
file,  you  do  find  him.  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  your 
wife's  mother  is  on  the  move,  sir." 

"  I  fear,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  much  philos- 
ophy. "  that  Mrs.  Skewton  is  shaken." 

"  Shaken,  Dombey  1 "  said  the  major.     "  Smashed !  ** 

"  Change,  however,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  and  at- 
tention may  do  much  yet." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "  Damme, 
sir,  she  never  wrapped  up  enough.  If  a  man  don't 
wrap  up,"  said  the  major,  taking  in  another  button  of  hia 
buff  waistcoat,  "  he  has  nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  But 
some  people  will  die.  They  will  do  it.  Damme,  they 
ufill.  They're  obstinate.  I  tell  you  what,  Dombey,  it 
may  not  be  ornamental ;  it  may  not  be  refined ;  it  may 
be  rough  and  tough ;  but  a  little  of  the  genuine  old  Eng- 
lish Bagstock  stamina,  sir,  would  do  all  the  good  in  tb« 
worM  to  the  human  breed." 


201  DOMBEY  ASD  SON. 

After  imparting  this  precious  piece  of  information,  the 
major,  who  was  certainly  true-blue,  whatever  other  en- 
dowments he  may  have  possessed  or  wanted,  coming 
within  the  "  genuine  old  English  "  classification,  which 
lias  never  been  exactly  ascertained,  took  his  lobster-eyee 
and  his  apoplexy  to  the  club,  and  choked  there  all  day 

Cleopatra,  at  one  time  fretful,  at  another  self-compla- 
cent, sometimes  awake,  sometimes  asleep,  and  at  all 
times  juvenile,  reached  Brighton  the  same  night,  fell  to 
pieces  as  usual,  and  was  put  away  in  bed;  where  a 
gloomy  fancy  might  have  pictured  a  more  potent  skeleton 
than  the  maid,  who  should  have  been  one,  watching  at 
the  rose-colored  curtains,  which  were  carried  down  to 
shed  their  bloom  upon  her. 

It  was  settled  in  high  council  of  medical  authority 
that  she  should  take  a  carriage  airing  every  day,  and 
that  it  was  important  she  should  get  out  every  day  and 
walk  if  she  could.  Edith  was  ready  to  attend  her  —  al- 
ways ready  to  attend  her,  with  the  same  mechanical  at- 
tention and  immovable  beauty  —  and  they  drove  out 
alone  ;  for  Edith  had  an  uneasiness  in  the  presence  of 
Florence,  now  that  her  mother  was  worse,  and  told 
Florence,  with  a  kiss,  that  she  would  rather  they  two 
went  alone. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  on  one  particular  day,  was  in  the  ir- 
resolute, exacting,  jealous  temper  that  had  developed 
itself  on  her  recovery  from  her  first  attack.  After  sit- 
ting silent  in  the  carriage  watching  Edith  for  some  time, 
she  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately.  The  hand 
was  neither  given  nor  withdrawn,  but  simply  yielded  to 
her  raising  of  it,  and  being  released,  dropped  down 
again,  almost  as  if  it  were  insensible.  At  this  she  be- 
gan to  whimper  and  moan,  and  say  what  a  motlier  sh« 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  205 

had  been,  and  how  she  was  forgotten  !  This  she  con- 
tinued to  do  at  capricious  intervals,  even  when  they  had 
alighted;  when  she  herself  was  halting  along  with' the 
joint  support  of  Withers  and  a  stick,  and  Edith  waa 
walking  by  her  side,  and  the  carriage  slowly  following  at 
a  little  distance. 

It  was  a  bleak,  lowering,  windy  day,  and  they  weie 
ont  upon  tiie  Downs  with  nothing  but  a  bare  sweep  of 
land  between  them  and  the  sky.  The  mother,  with  a 
querulous  satisfaction  in  the  monotony  of  her  complnint, 
was  still  repeating  it  in  a  low  voice  from  time  to  time, 
and  the  proud  form  of  her  daughter  moved  beside  her 
slowly,  when  there  came  advancing  over  a  dark  ridge 
before  them,  two  other  figures,  which  in  the  distance, 
were  so  like  an  exaggerated  imitation  of  their  own,  that 
pjdith  stopped. 

Almost  us  she  stopped,  the  two  figures  stop^ped ;  and 
that  one  which  to  Edith's  thinking  was  like  a  distorted 
shadow  of  her  mother,  spoke  to  the  other,  earnestly,  and 
witli  a  pointing  hand  towards  them.  That  one  seemed 
inclined  to  turn  back,  but  the  other,  in  which  Edith  rec- 
ognized enough -that  was  like  herself  to  strike  her  with 
on  unusual  feeling,  not  quite  free  from  fear,  came  on 
and  then  they  came  on  together. 

The  greater  part  of  this  observation  she  made  while 
walking  towards  them,  for  her  stoppage  had. been  mo- 
mentary. Nearer  observation  showed  her  that  they 
Were  poorly  dressed,  as  wanderers  about  the  country ; 
that  the  younger  woman  carried  knitted  work  or  some 
such  goods  for  sale;  and  that  the  old  one  toiled  on 
empty-handed. 

And  yet,  however  far  removed  she  was  in  dress,  in 
lignity,  in  beauty,  Edith   could   not    but   compare  the 


206  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

j'ounger  woman  with  herself,  stilL  It  may  have  been 
that  she  saw  upon  her  face  some  traces  which  she  knew 
were  lingering  in  her  own  soul,  if  not  yet  written  on 
that  index ;  but,  as  the  woman  came  on,  returning  hei 
gaze,  fixing  her  shining  eyes  upon  her,  undoubtedly  pre- 
senting something  of  her  own  air  and  stalure,  and  ap- 
pearing to  reciprocate  her  own  thoughts,  she  felt  a  chill 
creep  over  her,  as  if  the  day  were  darkening,  and  the 
wind  were  colder. 

They  had  now  come  up.  The  old  woman  holding  out 
her  hand  importunately,  stopped  to  beg  of  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton.  The  younger  one  stopped  too,  and  she  and  Edith 
looked  in  one  another's  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  have  to  sell  ?  "  said  Edith. 

"  Only  this,"  returned  the  woman,  holding  out  hei 
wares,  without  looking  at  them.  "  I  sold  myself  long 
ago." 

"  My  lady,  don't  believe  her,"  croaked  the  old  woman 
to  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  "  don't  beheve  what  she  says.  She 
loves  to  talk  like  that  She's  my  handsome  and  unduti- 
ful  daughter.  She  gives  me  nothing  but  reproaches,  my 
lady,  for  all  I  have  done  for  her.  Look  at  her  now,  my 
lady,  how  she  turns  upon  her  poor 'old  nr..^thcr  with  her 
looks." 

As  Mrs.  Skewton  drew  her  purse  out  with  a  trembling 
hand,  and  eagerly  fumbled  for  some  money,  which  the 
other  old  woman  greedily  watched  for  —  their  heads  all 
but  touching  in  their  hurry  and  decrepitude  —  Edith  in- 
terjjosed : 

"  I  have  seen  you,"  addressing  the  old  woman,  "  be- 
fore." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  with  a  courtesy.  "  Down  in  War- 
wickshire.    The  morning  among  the  trees.     When  you 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  207 

«vonldn't  yive  me  nothing.  But  the  gentleman  he  give 
me  something!  0,  bless  him,  bless  him  !"  mumbled  the 
old  woman,  holding  up  her  skinny  hand,  and  grinning 
frightfully  at  her  daughter. 

"It's  of  no  use  attempting  to  stay  me,  Edith!  "said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  angrily  anticipating  an  objection  from 
her.  "  You  know  nothing  about  it.  I  won't  be  dia- 
Buaded.  I  am  sure  this  is  an  excellent  woman,  and  u 
good  mother." 

•'  Yes,  my  lady,  yes,"  chattered  the  old  woman,  hold- 
ing out  her  avaricious  hand.  "  Thankee,  my  lady. 
Lord  bless  you,  my  lady.  Sixpence  more,  my  pretty 
lady,  as  a  good  mother  yourself." 

"  And  treated  undutifully  enough,  too,  my  good  old 
creature,  sometimes,  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
whimpering.  "  There  !  Shake  hands  with  me.  You're 
a  very  good  old  creature  —  full  of  what's-his-name  — 
and  all  that.  You're  all  affection  and  et  cetera,  a'n't 
you  ?  " 

*'  Oh  yes,  my  lady  !  "  ' 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  you  are  ;  and  so 's  that  gentlemanly 
3reature  Grangeby.  I  must  really  shake  hands  with 
you  again.  And  now  you  can  go,  you  know  ;  and  I 
hope,"  addressing  the  daughter,  "  that  you'll  show  more 
gratitude,  and  natural  what's-its-name,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it  —  but  I  never  did  remember  names  —  for  there 
never  was  a  better  mother  than  the  good  old  creature's  / 
b  en  to  you.     Come,  Edith  ! " 

As  the  ruin  of  Cleopatra  tottered  off  whimpering, 
and  wiping  its  eyes  with  a  gingerly  remembrance  of 
rouge  in  their  neighborhood,  the  old  woman  hobbleti 
another  way,  mumbling  and  counting  her  mofiey.  Not 
me  word    more,  nor   one  other   gesture,  had  been  ex* 


1?08  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

changed  between  Edith  and  the  younger  woman,  but 
neitlier  had  removed  her  eyes  from  the  other  for  a  mo- 
ment. Tli<iy  had  remained  confronted  until  now,  when 
Edith,  as  awakening  from  a  dream,  passed  slowly  on. 

"  You're  a  handsome  woman,"  muttered  her  shadow, 
looking  after  her;  "but  good  looks  won't  save  us.  An  J 
you're  a  proud  woman  ;  but  pride  won't  save  us.  Ws 
*iad  need  to  know  each  other  when  we  meet  a^n  I " 


DOMBET  AND  SON  209 


CHAPTER  XLL 

NKW  VOICES   m   THE   WAVE8. 

All  is  going  on  as  it  was  wont.  The  waves  are 
hoarse  with  repetition  of  their  mystery:  the  dust  lies 
piled  upon  the  shore;  the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover;  the 
winds  and  clouds  go  forth  upon  their  trackless  flight ;  the 
white  arms  beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible 
country  far  away. 

With  a  tender  melancholy  pleasure,  Florence  finds 
herself  again  on  the  old  ground  so  sadly  trodden,  yet  so 
happily,  and  thinks  of  him  in  the  quiet  place,  where  lie 
and  she  have  many  and  many  a  time  conversed  together, 
with  the  water  welling  up  about  his  couch.  And  now, 
as  she  sits  pensive  there,  she  hears  in  the  wild  low  mur- 
mur of  the  sea,  his  little  story  told  again,  his  very  words 
repeated ;  and  finds  that  all  her  life  and  hopes,  and 
griefs,  since  —  in  the  solitary  house,  and  in  the  pageant 
it  has  changed  to  —  have  a  portion  in  the  burden  of  the 
marvellous  song. 

And  gentle  Mr.  Toots,  who  wanders  at  a  distance, 
looking, wistfully  towards  the  figure  that  he  dotes  upon, 
and  has  followed  there,  but  cannot  in  his  delicacy  disturb 
at  such  a  time,  likewise  hears  the  requiem  of  little  Dora- 
Oey  on  the  waters,  rising  and  falling  in  the  lulls  of  their 
eternal  madrigal  in  praise  of  Florence.  Yes !  and  he 
ikintly  understands,  poor  Mr.  Toots,  that  they  are  saying 
VOI-.  m  14 


210  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Bomething  of  a  time  when  he  was  sensiT.le  of  being 
brighter  and  not  addle-brained ;  and  the  tears  rising  in 
his  eyes  when  he  fears  that  he  is  dull  and  stupid  now. 
and  good  for  little  but  to  be  laughed  at,  diminish  his 
gatisfaction  in  their  soothing  reminder  that  he  is  re^ 
lieved  from  present  responsibility  to  the  Chicken,  bv  the 
absence  of  that  game  head  of  poultry  in  the  country 
training  (at  Toots's  cost)  for  his  great  mill  with  the 
Larkey  Boy. 

But  Mr.  Toots  takes  courage,  when  they  whisper  a 
kind  thought  to  him:  and  by  slow  degrees  and  with  many 
indecisive  stoppages  on  the  way,  approaches  Florence. 
Stammering  and  blushing,  Mr.  Toots  affects  amazement 
when  he  comes  near  her,  and  says  (having  followed  closet 
on  the  carriage  in  which  she  travelled,  every  inch  of  the  ^ 
way  from  London,  loving  even  to  be  choked  by  the  dust 
of  its  wheels)  that  he  never  was  so  surprised  in  all  his 
life. 

"  And  you've  brought  Diogenes,  too,  Miss  Dombey ! " 
says  Mr.  Toots,  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the 
touch  of  the  small  hand  so  pleasantly  and  frankly  given 
him. 

No  doubt  Diogenes  is  there,  and  no  doubt  Mr.  Toota 
has  reason  to  observe  him,  for  he  comes  straightway  at 
Mr.  Toots's  legs,  and  tumbles  over  himself  in  the  des- 
peration with  which  he  makes  at  him,  like  a  very  dog 
of  Montargis.     But  he  is  checked  by  his  sweet  mistress 

•*  Down,  Di,  down.  Don't  you  remember  who  first 
made  us  friends,  Di  ?     For  shame  !  " 

Oh !  Well  may  Di  lay  his  loving  cheek  against  her 
hand,  and  run  off,  and  run  back,  and  rm  round  her, 
barking,  and  run  headlong  at  anybody  coming  by,  to 
show  his  devotion.     Mr.  Toots  would  run  headlong  at 


DOMBEY  AND  SON  211 

anybody,  too.  A  military  gentleman  goes  past,  and  Mr 
Toots  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  run  at  him,  full 
tilt. 

"  Diogenes  is  quite  in  his  native  air,  isn't  be,  Misa 
Dombey  .''  "  says  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  assents,  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr,  Toots,  "  beg  your  pardon, 
but  if  you  would  like  to  walk  to  Blimber's,  I  —  I'm  going 
there." 

Florence  puts  her  arm  in  that  of  Mr.  Toots  without 
B  word,  and  they  walk  away  together,  with  Diogenes  go- 
ing on  before.  Mr.  Toots's  legs  shake  under  him  ;  and 
though  he  is  splendidly  di'essed,  he  feels  misfits,  and  sees 
wrinkles,  in  the  masterpieces  of  Burgess  and  Co.,  and 
'wishes  he  had  put  on  that  brightest  pair  of  boots. 

Doctor  Blimber's  house,  outside,  has  as  scholastic  and 
studious  an  air  as  ever ;  and  up  there  is  the  window 
where  she  used  to  look  for  the  pale  face,  and  where  the 
pale  face  brightened  when  it  saw  her,  and  the  wasted 
little  hand  waved  kisses  as  she  passed.  The  door  is 
opened  by  the  same  weak-eyed  young  man,  whose  im- 
becility of  grin  at  sight  of  Mr.  Toots  is  feebleness  of 
character  personified.  They  are  shown  into  the  doctor's 
study,  where  blind  Homer  and  Minerva  give  them  au- 
dience as  of  yore,  to  the  sober  ticking  of  the  great  clock 
in  the  hall ;  and  where  the  globes  stand  still  in  their 
accustomed  places,  as  if  the  world  were  stationary  toOf 
and  nothing  in  it  ever  perished  in  obedience  to  the  uni- 
versal law,  that,  while  it  keeps  it  on  the  roll,  calls  every- 
thing  to  earth. 

And  here  is  Doctor  Blimber,  with  his  learned  legs ; 
«nd  here  is  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  her  sky-blue  cap  ;  and 
here  is  Cornelia,  with  her  sandy  little  row  of  curls,  and 


212  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

her  bright  spectacles,  still  working  like  a  sexton  in  the 
graves  of  languages.     Here  is  the  table  upon  which  he 
Eat  forlorn  and  strange,  the  "  new  boy  "  of  the  school 
and  hither  comes  the  distant  cooing  of  the  old  boys,  at 
their  old  lives  in  the  old  room  on  the  old  principle ! 

**  Toots ! "  says  Doctor  Blimber,  "  I  am  very  glad  to 
Boe  you.  Toots." 

Mr.  Toots  chuckles  in  reply. 

"  Also  to  see  you.  Toots,  in  such  good  company,**  says 
Doctor  Blimber. 

Mr.  Toots,  with  a  scarlet  visage,  explains  that  he  haa 
met  Miss  Dombey  by  accident,  and  that  Miss  Dombey 
wishing,  like  himself,  to  see  the  old  place,  they  have 
come   together, 

"  You  will  like,"  says  Doctor  Blimber,  "  to  step  among^ 
our  young  friends.  Miss  Dombey,  no  doubt.     All  fellow- 
students  of  yours.  Toots,  once.     I  think  we  have  no  new 
disciples    in   our  little   portico,   my   dear,"  says   Doctor 
Blimber  to  Cornelia,  "  since  Mr,  Toots  left  us." 

"  Except  Bitherstone,"  returns  Cornelia. 

"  Ay,  truly,"  says  the  doctor.  "  Bitherstone  is  new  to 
Mr,  Toots." 

New  to  Florence,  too,  almost ;  for,  in  the  school-room, 
Bitherstone  —  no  longer  Master  Bitherstone  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  —  shows  in  collars  and  a  neckcloth,  and  weara 
a  watch.  But  Bitherstone,  born  beneath  some  Bengal 
Btar  of  ill-oraen,  is  extremely  inky  ;  and  his  lexicon  has 
got  so  dropsical  from  constant  reference,  that  it  won't 
«hut,  and  yawns  as  if  it  really  could  not  bear  to  be  so 
bothered.  So  does  Bitherstone  its  master,  forced  at 
Doctor  Blimber's  highest  pressure ;  but  in  the  yawn  of 
Bitherstone  there  is  malice  and  snarl,  and  he  has  been 
tieard  to  say  that  he  wishes  he  could  catch  "old  Blimber* 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  213 

(n  India.  He'd  precious  soon  find  himself  carried  jp  the 
country  by  a  few  of  his  (Bitherstone's)  coolies,  and 
bunded  over  to  the  Thugs;   he  can  tell  him  that. 

Briggs  is  still  grinding  in  the  mill  of  knowledge ;  and 
Toser,  too ;  and  Johnson,  too ;  and  all  the  r^t  the 
older  pupils  being  principally  engaged  in  forgetting,  with 
prodigious  labor,  everything  they  knew  when  they  were 
younger.  All  are  as  polite  and  pale  as  ever  ;  and  among 
them,  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  with  his  bony  hand  and  bristly 
head,  is  still  hard  at  it :  with  his  Herodotus  stop  on  just 
at  present,  and  his  other  barrels  on  a  shelf  behind 
him. 

A  mighty  sensation  is  created,  even  among  these  grave 
young  gentlemen,  by  a  visit  from  the  emancipated  Toots , 
who  is  regarded  with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  one  who  has 
passed  the  Rubicon,  and  is  pledged  never  to  come  back, 
and  concerning  the  cut  of  whose  clothes,  and  fashion  of 
whose  jewelry,  whispers  go  about,  behind  hands ;  the 
bilious  Bitherstone,  who  is  not  of  Mr.  Toots's  time,  af- 
fecting to  despise  the  latter  to  the  smaller  boys,  and 
saying  he  knows  better,  and  that  he  should  like  to  see 
him  coming  that  sort  of  thing  in  Bengal,  where  hia 
mother  has  got  an  emerald  belonging  to  him,  that  was 
taken  out  of  the  footstool  of  a  rajah.     Come  now  ! 

Bewildering  emotions  are  awakened  also  by  the  sighv 
of  Florence,  with  whom  every  young  gentleman  imme- 
diately falls  in  love,  again ;  except,  as  aforesaid,  the 
bilious  Bitherstone,  who  declines  to  do  so,  out  of  contra- 
diction. Black  jealousies  of  Mr.  Toots  arise,  and  Brigga 
is  of  opinion  that  he  a'n't  so  very  old  after  all.  But  this 
disparaging  insinuation  is  speedily  made  nought  by  Mr. 
Toots  saying  aloud  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  "  How  are  you, 
Feeder  ? "  and  asking  him  to  come  and  dine  with  him 


214  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

to-day  at  the  Bedford  ;  in  right  of  which  feats  he  might 
Bet  up  as  Old  Parr,  if  he  chose,  unquestioned. 

There  is  much  shaking  of  hands,  and  much  howing, 
and  a  great  desire  on  the  part  of  each  young  gentleman 
to  tak€(*roots  down  in  Miss  Dombey's  good  graces ;  and 
then,  Mr.  Toots  having  bestowed  a  chuckle  on  his  old 
desk,  Florence  and  he  withdraw  with  Mrs.  Bliraber  and 
Cornelia ;  and  Doctor  Blimber  is  heard  to  observe  be- 
hiad  them  as  he  comes  out  last,  and  shuts  the  door, 
"  Gentlemen,  we  will  now  resume  our  studies."  For 
that  and  little  else  is  what  the  doctor  hears  the  sea  say, 
or  has  heard  it  saying  all  his  life. 

Florence  then  steals  away  and  goes  up-stairs  to  the 
old  bedroom  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia ;  Mr. 
Toots,  who  feels  that  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  is 
wanted  there,  stands  talking  to  the  doctor  at  the  study- 
door,  or  rather  hearing  the  doctor  talk  to  him,  and  won- 
denng  how  he  ever  thought  the  study  a  great  sanctuary, 
and  the  doctor,  with  his  round  turned  legs,  like  a  clerical 
pianoforte,  an  awful  man.  Florence  soon  comes  down 
and  takes  leave  ;  Mr.  Toots  takes  leave  ;  and  Diogenes, 
who  has  been  worrying  the  weak-eyed  young  man  piti- 
lessly all  the  time,  shoots  out  at  the  door,  and  barks  a 
glad  defiance  down  the  cliff;  while  'Melia,  and  another 
of  the  doctor's  female  domestics,  look  out  of  an  upper 
window,  laughing  "  at  that  there  Toots,"  and  saying  of 
Miss  Dombey,  "  But  really  though,  now  —  a'n't  she  like 
her  brother,  only  prettier  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots,  who  saw  when  Florence  came  down  that 
there  were  tears  upon  her  face,  is  desperately  anxious 
and  uneasy,  and  at  first  fears  that  he  did  wrong  in 
proposing  the  visit.  But  he  is  soon  relieved  by  her 
wying  she  is  very  glad  to  have  been  there  again,  and 


DOMBEYAND  SON.  216 

by  her  talking  quite  cheerfully  about  it  all,  as  they 
walked  on  by  the  sea.  What  with  the  voices  there 
»n(l  her  sweet  voice,  when  they  come  near  Mr.  Dom< 
bey's  house,  and  Mr.  Toots  must  leave  her,  he  is  so 
enslaved  that  he  has  not  a  scrap  of  free-will  left  ; 
when  she  gives  him  her  hand  at  parting,  he  cannct  let 
it  go. 

"  Miss  Dombey,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Mr.  Toots, 
!u  a  sad  fluster,  "  but  if  you  would  allow  me  to  —  to  "— 

The  smiling  and  unconscious  look  of  Florence  brings 
him  to  a  dead  stop. 

"  If  you  would  allow  me  to  — if  you  would  not  con- 
sider it  a  liberty.  Miss  Dombey,  if  I  was  to  —  without 
any  encouragement  at  all,  if  I  was  to  hope,  you  know," 
says  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  IMiss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  who  feels  that  he 
IS  in  for  it  now,  "  I  really  am  in  that  state  of  adoration 
of  you  that  I  don't  know  whaf  to  do  with  myself.  I  am 
the  most  deplorable  wretch.  If  it  wasn't  at  the  corner 
of  the  square  at  present,  I  should  go  down  on  my  knees, 
and  beg  and  entreat  of  you,  without  any  encouragement 
at  all,  just  to  let  me  hope  that  I  may  —  may  think  it 
possible  that  you  "  — 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  don't ! "  cries  Florence,  for  the 
moment  quite  alarmed  and  distressed.  "  Oh,  pray  don't, 
Mr.  Toots.  Stop,  if  you  please.  Don't  say  any  more. 
As  a  kindness  and  a  favor  to  me,  don't." 

Mr.  Toots  is  dreadfully  abashed,  and  his  mouth  opens. 

"  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  says  Florence,  "  I 
am  so  grateful  to  you,  I  have  such  reason  to  like  you 
tor  being  a  kind  friend  to  me,  and  I  do  like  you  so 
'aauch ; "  and  here  the  ingenuous  face  smiles  upon  him 


216  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

with  tlu!  pleasantest  look  of  honesty  in  the  world ;  *•  that 
I  am  sure  you  are  only  goiwg  to  say  good-by ! "  ' 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "I  —  I  — 
that's  exactly  what  I  mean.     It's  of  no  consequence." 

"  Good-by  !  "  cries  Florence. 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Dorabey  ! "  stammers  Mr.  Toots.  "  1 
hope  you  won't  think  anything  about  it.  It's  —  it's  of 
no  consequence,  thank  you.  It's  not  of  the  least  conse- 
quence in  the  world." 

Poor  Mr.  Toots  goes  home  to  his  hotel  in  a  state  of 
desperation,  locks  himself  into  his  bedroom,  flings  hiin- 
Belf  upon  his  bed,  and  lies  there  for  a  long  time  ;  as  if 
it  were  of  the  greatest  consequence,  nevertheless.  But 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  is  coming  to  dinner,  which  happens 
well  for  Mr.  Toots,  or  there  is  no  knowing  when  he 
might  get  up  again.  Mr.  Toots  is  obliged  to  get  up 
to  receive  him,  and  to  give  him  hospitable  entertain- 
ment. 

And  the  generous  inflpence  of  that  social  virtue,  hos- 
pitality (to  make  no  mention  of  wine  and  good  cheer), 
opens  Mr.  Toots's  heart,  and  warms  him  to  conversa- 
tion. He  does  not  tell  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  what  passed 
at  the  corner  of  the  square  ;  but  when  Mr.  Feeder  asks 
him  "When  it  is  to  come  off?"  Mr.  Toots  replies,  "that 
there  are  certain  subjects  "  —  which  brings  Mr.  Feeder 
down  a  peg  or  two  immediately.  Mr.  Toots  adds,  that 
he  don't  know  what  riglit  Blimber  had  to  notice  his 
being  in  Miss  Dombey's  company,  and  that  if  he  thought 
he  meant  impudence  by  it,  he'd  have  him  out,  doctor  or 
uo  doctor ;  but  he  supposes  it's  only  his  ignorance.  Mr. 
Feeder  says  he  has  no  doubt  of  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  however,  as  an  intimate  friend,  is  not 
t;xcluded  from  the  subject.     Mr.  Toots  merely  require^ 


DOMBEY  AND  uON.  217 

that  it  should  be  mentioned  mysteriously,  and  with  feel- 
ing. After  a  few  glasses  of  wine,  he  gives  Miss  Dom- 
bey's  health,  observing,  "  Feeder,  you  have  no  idea  of 
the  sentiments  with  which  I  propose  that  toast."  Mr. 
Feeder  replies,  "Oh  yes  I  have,  my  dear  Toots;  and 
greatly  they  redound  to  your  honor,  old  boy."  Mr. 
Feeder  is  then  agitated  by  friendship,  and  shakes  hands 
and  says,  if  ever  Toots  wants  a  brother,  he  knows  where 
to  find  him,  either  by  post  or  parcel.  Mr.  Feeder  like- 
wise says,  that  if  he  may  advise,  he  would  recommend 
Mr.  Toots  to  learn  the  guitar,  or,  at  least,  the  flute ;  for 
women  like  music  when  you  are  paying  your  addresses 
to  'em,  and  he  has  found  the  advantage  of  it  himself. 

This  brings  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  to  the  confession  that 
he  has  his  eye  upon  Cornelia  Blimber.  He  informs  Mr. 
Toots  that  he  don't  object  to  spectacles,  and  that  if  the 
doctor  were  to  do  the  handsome  thing  and  give  up  the 
business,  why,  tliere  they  are  —  provided  for.  He  says 
it's  his  opinion  that  when  a  man  has  made  a  handsome 
sum  by  his  business,  he  is  bound  to  give  it  up  ;  and  that 
Cornelia  would  be  an  assistance  in  it  which  any  man 
might  be  proud  of.  Mr.  Toots  replies  by  launching 
wildly  out  into  Miss  Dombey's  praises,  and  by  insinua- 
tions that  sometimes  he  thinks  he  should  like  to  blow 
his  brains  out.  Mr.  Feeder  strongly  urges  that  it  would 
be  a  rash  attempt,  and  shows  him,  as  a  reconcilement  to 
existence,  Cornelia's  portrait,  spectacles  and  all. 

Thus  these  quiet  spirits  pass  the  evening ;  and  when 
it  has  yielded  place  to  night,  Mr.  Toots  walks  home 
with  Mr.  Feeder,  and  parts  with  him  at  Doctor  Klira- 
ber's  door.  But  Mr.  Feeder  only  goes  up  the  steps,  and 
when  Mr.  Toots  is  gone,  comes  down  aa;ain,  to  stroll 
upon  the  beach  alone,   and  think    about    his   prospects, 


218  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Feeder  plainly  hears  the  waves  informing  him,  oa 
he  loiters  along,  that  Doctor  Blimber  will  giv«  up  the 
business  ;  and  he  feels  a  soft  romantic  pleasure  in  lock- 
ing at  the  outside  of  the  house,  and  thinking  that  the 
doctor  will  first  paint  it,  and  put  it  into  thorough  re- 
pair. 

Mr.  Toots  is  likewise  roaming  up  and  down,  outside 
the  casket  that  contains  his  jewel;  and  in  a  deplorable 
condition  of  mind,  and  not  unsuspected  by  the  police, 
gazes  at  a  window  where  he  sees  a  light,  and  which  he 
has  no  doubt  is  Florence's.  But  it  is  not,  for  that  is 
Mrs.  Skewton's  room  ;  and  while  Florence,  sleeping  in 
another  chamber,  dreams  lovingly,  in  the  midst  of  the 
old  scenes,  and  their  old  associations  live  again,  the  figure 
which  in  grim  reality  is  substituted  for  the  patient  boy's 
on  the  same  theatre,  oncfe  more  to  connect  it  —  but  how 
differently  !  —  with  decay  and  death,  is  stretched  there, 
wakeful  and  complaining.  Ugly  and  haggard  it  lies  upon 
its  bed  of  unrest ;  and  by  it,  in  the  terror  of  her  unim* 
passioned  loveliness  —  for  it  has  terror  in  the  sufferer's 
failing  eyes  —  sits  Edith.  "What  do  the  waves  say,  in 
the  stillness  of  the  night  to  them  ! 

"  Edith,  what  is  that  stone  arm  raised  to  strike  me. 
Don't  you  see  it  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing,  mother,  but  your  fancy." 

**  But  my  fancy  !  Everything  is  my  fancy.  Look  1 
la  it  possible  that  you  don't  see  it !  " 

"  Indeed,  mother,  there  is  nothing.  Should  I  sit  un- 
moved, if  there  were  any  such  thing  there  ?" 

"  Unmoved  ?  "  looking  wildly  at  her  —  "  it's  gone  now 
—  and  why  are  you  so  unmoved  ?  That  is  not  my 
fancy,  Edith.  It  turns  tae  cold  to  see  you  sitting  nt  mj 
side." 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  219 

"  I  am  Sony    mother." 

"  Sorry  !  You  seem  always  sorry.  But  it  is  not  for 
me ! " 

With  that,  she  cries ;  and  tossing  her  restless  head 
from  side  to  side  upon  her  pillow,  runs  on  about  neglect, 
and  the  mother  she  has  been,  and  the  mother  the  good 
old  creature  was,  whom  they  met,  and  the  cold  return 
the  daughters  of  such  mothers  make.  In  the  midst  of 
her  incoherence,  she  stops,  looks  at  her  daughter,  cries 
out  that  her  wits  are  going,  and  hides  her  face  upon 
the  bed. 

Edith,  in  compassion,  bends  over  her  and  speaks  to 
her.  Tlie  sick  old  woman  clutches  her  round  the  neck, 
and  says,  with  a  look  of  horror, 

"  Edith !  we  are  going  home  soon  ;  going  back.  You 
mean  that  I  shall  go  home  again  ?  " 

"Yes  mother,  yes." 

"  And  what  he  said  —  what's  his  name,  I  never  could 
remember  names  —  major  —  that  dreadful  woi'd,  when 
we  came  away  —  it's  not  true?  Edith!"  with  a  shriek 
and  a  stare,  "  it's  not  that  that  is  the  matter  with  me." 

Night  after  night,  the  light  burns  in  the  window,  and 
the  figure  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  Edith  sits  beside  it, 
and  the  restless  waves  are  calling  to  them  both  the  whole 
night  long.  Night  after  night,  the  waves  are  hoarse 
with  repetition  of  their  mystery ;  the  dust  lies  piled 
upon  the  shore  ;  ihs.  sea-birds  soar  and  hover ;  the  winds 
and  clouds  are  on  their  trackless  flight ;  the  white  arras 
beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country  far 
away. 

And  still  the  sick  old  woman  looks  into  the  corner, 
Khore  the  stone  arm  —  part  of  a  figuie  of  some  tomb, 
ihe  says  —  is  raised  to  strike  her.     At  last  it  falls ;  and 


220  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Ihen  a  dumb  old  woman  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  she  is 
crooked,  and  shrunk  up,  and  half  of  her  is  dead. 

Such  is  the  figure,  painted  and  patched  for  the  sun  to 
mock,  that  is  drawn  slowly  through  the  crowd  from  day 
to  day,  looking,  as  it  goes,  for  the  good  old  creature  who 
was  such  a  mother,  and  making  mouths  as  it  peera 
among  the  crowd  in  vain.  Such  is  the  figure  that  i? 
often  wheeled  down  to  the  margin  of  the  sea,  and  sta 
tioned  there  ;  but  on  which  no  wind  can  blow  freshness, 
and  for  which  the  murmur  of  the  ocean  has  no  soothing 
word.  She  lies  and  listens  to  it  by  the  hour ;  but  its 
speech  is  dark  and  gloomy  to  her,  and  a  dread  is  on 
her  face,  and  when  her  eyes  wander  over  the  expanse, 
they  see  but  a  broad  stretch  of  desolation  between  earth 
and  heaven. 

Florence  she  seldom  sees,  and  when  she  does,  is  angry 
with  and  mows  at.  Edith  is  beside  her  always,  and 
keeps  Florence  away ;  and  Florence,  in  her  bed  at  night, 
trembles  at  the  thought  of  deatli  in  such  a  shape,  and 
often  wakes  and  listens,  thinking  it  has  come.  No  one 
attends  on  her  but  Edith.  It  is  better  that  few  eyes 
should  see  her ;  and  her  daughter  watches  alone  by  the 
bedside. 

A  shadow  even  on  that  shadowed  face,  a  sharpening 
even  of  the  sharpened  features,  and  a  thickening  of  the 
veil  before  the  eyes  into  a  pall  that  shuts  out  the  dim 
world,  is  come.  Her  wandering  hands  upon  the  cov- 
erlet join  feebly  palm  to  palm,  and  move  towards  her 
daughter;  and  a  voice  not  like  hers,  not  like  any  voice 
that  speaks  our  mortal  language  —  says  "  For  I  nursed 
f  ou  ! " 

Edith,  without  a  tear," kneels  down  to  bring  her  voice 
k)ser  to  the  sinking  head,  and  answers : 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  221 

*•  Mother-,  can  you  hear  me  ?  " 

Staring  wide,  she  tries  to  nod  in  answer. 

'*  Can  you  recollect  the  night  before  I  married  ?  ** 

The  head  is  motionless,  but  it  expresses  somehow  that 
she  does. 

"  I  told  you  then  that  I  forgave  your  part  in  it,  and 
prayed  God  to  forgive  my  own.  I  told  you  that  the 
past  was  at  an  end  between  us.  I  say  so  now,  again. 
Kiss  me,  mother." 

Edith  touches  the  white  lips,  and  for  a  moment  all  is 
Btill.  A  moment  afterwards,  her  mother,  with  her  girl- 
ish laugh,  and  the  skeleton  of  the  Cleopatra  manner, 
rises  in  her  bed. 

Draw  the  rose-colored  curtains.  There  is  something 
else  upon  its  flight  besides  the  wind  and  clouds.  Draw 
the  rose-colored  curtains  close ! 

Intelligence  of  the  event  is  sent  to  Mr.  Dombey  in 
town,  who  waits  upon  Cousin  Feenix  (not  yet  able  to 
make  up  his  mind  for  Baden-Baden)^  who  has  just  re- 
ceived it  too.  A  good-natured  creature  like  Cousin  Fee- 
nix is  the  very  man  for  a  marriage  or  a  funeral,  and  his 
position  in  the  family  renders  it  right  that  he  should  be 
eonsuhed. 

"  Dombey,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  upon  my  aon],  I  am 
very  much  shocked  to  see  you  on  such  a  melancholy  occa- 
sion.   My  poor  aunt !    She  was  a  devilish  lively  woman."* 

Mr.  Dombey  re|)lies,  "  Very  much  so." 

"  And  made  up,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  really  young, 
you  know,  considering.  I  am  sure,  on  the  day  of  youi 
marriage,  I  thought  she  was  good  for  another  twenty 
years.  In  point  of  fact,  I  said  so  to  a  man  at  Brooks's 
—  little  Billy  Joper  —  you  know  him,  no  doubt  —  man 
with  a  glass  in  his  eye  ? " 


222  DOMBET  AND  SOW. 

Mr.  Dombey  bows  a  negative.  "  Id  reference  to  dM 
obsequies,"  he  bints,  "  whether  there  is  any  sugges* 
lion  "  — 

"  "Well,  upon  my  life,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  stroking 
his  chin,  wliich  he  has  just  enough  of  hand  below  his 
wristbands  to  do ;  "I  really  don't  know.  There's  a 
Mausoleum  down  at  my  place,  in  the  park,  but  Fm 
afraid  it's  in  bad  repair,  and,  in  point  of  fact,  in  a  devil 
of  a  state.  But  for  being  a  little  out  at  elbows,  T 
ehould  have  had  it  put  to  rights ;  but  I  believe  the  peo- 
ple come  and  make  pic-nic  parties  there  inside  the  iron 
railings." 

Mr.  Dorabey  is  clear  that  this  won't  do. 

"  There's  an  uncommon  good  ohurch  in  the  village," 
Bays  Cousin  Feenix,  thoughtfully ;  "  pure  specimen  of 
the  Anglo-Norman  style,  and  admirably  well  sketched 
too  by  Lady  Jane  Finchbury  —  woman  with  tight  stays 
—  but  they've  spoilt  it  with  whitewash,  I  understand,  and 
it's  a  long  joume}^' 

"  Perhaps  Brighton  itself,"  Mr.  Dombey  suggests. 

"  Upon  my  honor,  Dombey,  I  don't  think  we  could  do 
better,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "  It's  on  the  spot,  you  see, 
and  a  very  cheerful  place." 

*'  And  when,"  hints  Mr.  Dombey,  "  would  it  be  con« 
venieqt  ?  " 

"  I  shall  make  a  point,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  of 
pledging  myself  for  ^,ny  day  you  think  best.  I  shall 
have  great  pleasure  (melancholy  pleasure,  of  course)  in 

following  my  poor  aunt  to  the  confines  of  the in 

point  of  fact,  to  the  grave,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  failing 
01  the  other  turn  of  speech 

*'  "Would  Monday  do  for   leaving  town  ? "  says  'M 
Dorabey. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  228 

"  Monday  would  suit  me  to  perfection,"  replies  Cousin 
Feenix.  Therefore  Mr.  Dombey  arranges  to  take  Cousin 
Feenix  down  on  that  day,  and  presently  takes  his  leave, 
attended  to  the  stairs  by  Cousin  Feenix,  who  says,  a( 
partinj»,  "  I'm  really  exeessivelysorry,  Dombey,  that  yea 
ehould  have  so  much  trouble  about  it ; "  to  which  Mr 
I)ombey  answers,  "  Not  at  all." 

At  the  appointed  time,  Cousin  Feenix  and  Mr.  DoiU' 
bey  meet,  and  go  down  to  Brighton,  and  representing,  in 
their  two  selves,  all  the  other  mourners  for  the  deceased 
lady's  loss,  attend  her  remains  to  their  place  of  rest. 
Cousin  Feenix,  sitting  in  the  mourning-coach,  recognizes 
innumerable  acquaintances  on  the  road,  but  takes  no 
other  notice  of  them,  in  decorum,  than  checking  them 
off  aloud,  as  they  go  by,  for  Mr.  Dombey's  information, 
as  "  Tom  Johnson.  Man  with  cork  leg,  from  White's. 
What  are  you  here,  Tommy  ?  Foley  on  a  blood  marc. 
The  Smalder  girls  "  —  and  so  forth.  At  the  ceremony 
Cousin  Feenix  is  depressed,  observing,  that  these  are 
tlie  occasions  to  make  a  man  think,  in  point  of  fact,  that 
he  is  getting  shaky ;  and  his  eyes  are  really  moistened, 
when  it  is  over.  But  he  soon  recovers  ;  and  so  do  the 
rest  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  relatives  and  friends,  of  whom 
the  major  continually  tells  the  club  that  she  never  did 
wrap  up  enough ;  while  the  young  lady  with  the  back, 
who  has  80  much  trouble  with  her  eyelids,  says,  with  a 
little  scream,  that  she  must  have  been  enormously  old, 
and  that  she  died  of  all  kinds  of  horrors,  and  you  mustn't 
mention  it. 

So  Edith's  mother  lies  unmentioned  of  her  dear  friends, 
who  are  deaf  to  the  waves  that  are  hoai"se  with  repetition 
of  their  mystery,  and  blind  to  the  dust  that  is  piled  upon 
ihe  shore,  and  to  the  white  arms  that  are  beckoning,  in 


2^4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away.  But 
all  goes  on,  as  it  was  wont,  upon  the  margin  of  the  un 
known  sea ;  and  Edith  standing  there  alone,  and  listou* 
iug  to  its  waves,  has  dank  weed  cast  up  at  her  feet,  to 
9tiv.yf  bei  path  in  life  withaL 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  226 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

CONFIDENTIAL   AND   ACCIDENTAL. 

Attired  no  more  in  Captain  Cuttle's  sable  slops  and 
Bou'-wester  hat,  but  dressed  in  a  substantial  suit  of  brown 
livery,  which,  while  it  affected  to  be  a  very  sober  and 
demure  livery  indeed,  was  really  as  self-satisfied  and  con- 
fident a  one  as  tailor  need  desire  to  make,  Rob  the 
Grinder,  thus  transformed  as  to  his  outer  man,  and  all 
regardless  within  of  the  captain  and  the  Midshipman, 
except  wiien  he  devoted  a  few  minutes  of  his  leisure 
time  to  crowing  over  those  inseparable  worthies,  and  re- 
calling, with  much  applauding  music  from  that  brazen  in- 
strument, his  conscience,  the  triumphant  manner  in  which 
he  had  disembarrassed  himself  of  their  company,  now 
served  his  patron,  Mr.  Carker.  Inmate  of  Mr.  Carker's 
bouse,  and  serving  about  his  person,  Rob  kept  his  round 
eyes  on  the  white  teeth  with  fear  and  trembling,  and  felt 
that  he  had  need  to  open  them  wider  than  ever. 

He  could  not  have  quaked  more,  through  his  whole 
being,  before  the  teeth,  though  he  had  come  into  the  ser- 
vice of  some  powerful  enchanter,  and  they  had  been  his 
strongest  spells.  The  boy  had  a  sense  of  power  and 
authority  in  this  patron  of  his  that  eng^-ossed  his  whole 
attention  and  exacted  his  most  implicit  submission  and 
obedience.  He  hardly  considered  himself  safe  in  think- 
ttig  about  him  when  he  was  absent,  lest  he  should  f?el 

VOL-    III  15 


226  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

himself  immediately  taken  by  the  throat  again,  as  on  the 
morning  when  he  first  became  bound  to  him,  and  should 
see  every  one  of  the  teeth  finding  him  out,  and  taxing 
him  with  every  fancy  of  his  mind.  Face  to  face  with 
him,  Rob  had  no  more  doubt  that  Mr.  Carker  read  hia 
s(icret  thoughts,  or  that  he  could  read  them  by  the  least 
exertion  of  his  will  if  he  were  so  inclined,  than  he  had 
that  Mr.  Carker  saw  him  when  he  Jooked  at  him.  The 
ascendancy  was  so  complete,  and  held  him  in  such  en- 
thralment,  that,  hardly  daring  to  think  at  all,  but  with 
bis  mind  filled  with  a  constantly  dilating  impression  of 
his  patron's  irresistible  command  over  him,  and  power 
of  doing  anything  with  him,  he  would  stand  watching 
his  pleasure,  and  trying  to  anticipate  his  orders,  in  a 
state  of  mental  suspension,  as  to  all  other   things. 

Rob  had  not  informed  himself  perhaps  —  in  his  then 
state  of  mind  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  no  common 
temerity  to  inquire —  whether  he  yielded  so  completely 
to  this  influence  in  any  part,  because  he  had  floating 
suspicions  of  his  patron's  being  a  master  of  certain 
treacherous  arts  in  which  he  had  himself  been  a  poor 
scholar  at  the  Grinders'  School.  But  certainly  Rob 
admired  him,  as  well  as  feared  him.  Mr.  Carker,  per- 
haps, was  better  acquainted  with  the  sources  of  his 
power,  which  lost  nothing  by  his  management  of  it. 

On  the  very  night  when  he  left  the  captain's  service, 
Rob,  after  disposing  of  his  pigeons,  and  even  making  a 
bad  bargain  in  his  hurry,  had  gone  straight  down  to  Mr. 
Carker's  house,  and  hotly  presented  himself  before  his 
Dew  master  with  a  glowing  face  that  seemed  to  expect 
eommendation. 

"  What,  scapegrace  ! "  said  Mr.  Carker,  glancing  at 
his  bundle.  "  Have  you  left  your  situation  and  come  *o 
me  ?  " 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  227 

"  Oh  if  you  please,  sir,"  faltered  Rob,  "  you  said,  you 
know,  when  I  come  here  last "  — 

"  /said."  returned  Mr.  Carker,  "  what  did  I  say  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  you  didn't  say  nothing  at  all,  sir," 
returned  Rob,  warned  by  the  manner  of  this  inquiry 
and  very  much  disconcerted. 

His  patron  looked  at  him  with  a  wide  display  of  guma, 
and  shaking  his  forefinger,  observed : 

"  You'll  come  to  an  evil  end,  my  vagabond  friend,  I 
foresee.     There's  ruin  in  store  for  you." 

"  Oh  if  you  please,  don't,  sir ! "  cried  Rob,  with  his 
legs  trembling  under  him.  "  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  only  want 
to  work  for  you,  sir,  and  to  wait  upon  you,  sir,  and  to  do 
faithful  whatever  I'm  bid,  sir." 

"  You  had  better  do  faithfully  whatever  you  are  bid,'* 
returned  his  patron,  "  if  you  have  anything  to  do  with 
nic. 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,  sir,"  pleaded  the  submissive  Rob ; 
"  I'm  sure  of  that,  sir.  If  you'll  only  be  so  good  as  try 
me,  sir !  And  if  ever  you  find  me  out,  sir,  doing  any- 
thing against  your  wishes,  I  give  you  leave  to  kill  me." 

"You  dog!"  said  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  hia 
chair,  and  smiling  at  him  serenely.  "  That's  nothing  to 
what  I'd  do  to  you,  if  you  tried  to  deceive  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  abject  Grinder,  "  I'm  sure 
you  would  be  down  upon  me  dreadful,  sir.  I  wouldn't 
attempt  for  to  go  and  do  it,  sir,  not  if  I  was  bribed  with 
golden  guineas." 

Thoroughly  checked  in  his  expectation  of  commenda- 
tion, the  crest-fallen  Grinder  stood  looking  at  his  patror, 
and  vainly  endeavoring  not  to  look  at  him,  with  the  un- 
easiness which  a  cur  will  often  manifest  ir  a  sirailai 
eituation. 


228  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

"  So  yoH  have  left  your  old  service,  and  come  here  to 
ask  me  to  take  you  into  mine,  eh  ?  "  said  ISIr.  Carker. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  sir,"  returned  Rob,  who,  in  doing 
«o,  had  acted  on  his  patron's  own  instructions,  but  dared 
not  justify  himself  by  the  least  insinuation  to  that  ef- 
fort. 

•'  Well !  "  said  'Mr.  Carker.     "  You  know  me,  boy  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  yes,  sir,"  returned  Rob,  fumbling  with  his 
hat,  and  still  fixed  by  Mr.  Cai-ker's  eye,  and  fruitlessly 
endeavoring  to  unfix  himself. 

Mr.  Carker  nodded.     "  Take  care  then  !" 

Rob  expressed  in  a  number  of  short  bows  his  lively 
understanding  of  this  caution,  and  was  bowing  himself 
back  to  the  door,  greatly  relieved  by  the  prospect  of 
getting  on  the  outside  of  it,  when  his  patron  stopped 
him. 

"  Halloa  !  "  he  cried,  calling  him  roughly  back.  "  Yo)U 
have  been  —  shut  that  door." 

Rob  obeyed  as  if- his  life  had  depended  on  his  alacrity. 

"  You  have  been  used  to  eavesdropping.  Do  you 
know  what  that  means  ?  " 

"  Listening,  sir  ? "  Rob  hazarded,  after  some  embai 
rassed  reflection. 

His  patron  nodded.     "  And  watching,  and  so  forth." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  here,  sir,"  answered  Rob ; 
"  upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  wouldn't  sir,  I  wish  I  may 
die  if  I  would,  sir,  for  anything  that  could  be  promised 
to  me.  I  should  consider  it  as  much  as  all  the  world 
was  worth,  to  offer  to  do  such  a  thing,  unless  I  was 
ordered,  sir." 

''  You  had  better  not.  You  have  been  used,  too,  to 
babbling  and  tattling,"  aaid  his  patron  with  perfect  cool 
DOSS.     "  Beware  of  that  here,  or  you're  a  lost  rascal/ 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  229 

and  he  smiled  again,  and  again  cautioned  him  with  hia 
forefinger. 

The  Grinder's  breath  came  short  and  thick  with  con- 
sternation. He  tried  to  protest  the  purity  of  his  inten- 
tions, but  could  only  stare  at  the  smiling  gentleman  in  a 
stupor  of  submission,  with  which  the  smiling  gentleman 
seemed  well  enough  satisfied,  for  he  ordered  him  'down- 
stairs, after  observing  him  for  some  moments  in  silence, 
and  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  retained  in  his 
employment. 

This  was  the  manner  of  Rob  the  Grinder's  engage- 
ment by  Mr.  Carker,  and  his  awe-slricken  devotion  to 
that  gentleman  had  strengthened  and  increased,  if  possi- 
ble, with  every  minute  of  his  service. 

It  was  a  service  of  some  months'  duration,  when  early 
one  morning,  Rob  opened  the  garden-gate  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey.  who  was  come  to  breakfast  with  his  master,  by 
appointment.  At  the  same  moment  his  master  himself 
came,  hurrying  forth  to  receive  the  distinguished  guest, 
and  give  him  welcome  with  all  his  teeth. 

"  I  never  thought,"  said  Carker,  when  he  had  assisted 
him  to  alight  from  his  horse,  "  to  see  you  here,  I'm  sure. 
This  is  an  extraordinary  day  in  my  calendar.  No  occa- 
Bion  is  very  special  to  a  man  like  you,  who  may  do  ar.y- 
thing ;  but  to  a  man  like  me,  the  case  is  widely  difffcrent." 

"You  have  a  tasteful  place  here,  Carker,"  said  Mr 
Dombey,  condescending  to  stop  upon  the  lawn,  to  look 
about  him. 

"  You  cjin  afford  to  say  so,"  returned  Carker.  "  Thank 
you." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  lofty  patronage, 
''  any  one  might  say  so.  As  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  a  very 
eomniodiou*.  and  well-arranged  place  —  quite  elegant." 


280  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  As  far  a3  it  goes,  truly,"  returned  Carker,  with  ao 
air  of  disparagement.  "  It  wants  that  qualification. 
Well !  we  have  said  enough  about  it ;  and  though  you 
can  affoi*d  to  praise  it,  I  thank  you  none  the  less. 
Will  you  walk  in?" 

Mr.  Dombey,  entering  the  house,  noticed,  as  he  had 
I'jason  to  do,  the  complete  arrangement  of  the  rooms, 
and  the  numerous  contrivances  for  comfort  and  effect 
that  abounded  there.  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  ostentation  of 
humility,  received  this  notice  with  a  deferential  smile, 
and  said  he  understood  its  delicate  meaning,  and  appreci- 
ated it,  but  in  truth  the  cottage  was  good  enough  for  one 
in  his  position  —  better,  perhaps,  than  such  a  man  should 
occupy,  poor  as  it  was. 

"  But  perhaps  to  you,  who  are  so  far  removed,  it  really 
does  look  better  than  it  is,"  he  said,  with  his  false  mouth 
distended  to  its  fullest  stretch.  "Just  as  raonarchs  im- 
agine attractions  in  the  lives  of  beggars." 

He  directed  a  sharp  glance  and  a  sharp  smile  at  Mr. 
Doinbey  as  he  spoke,  and  a  sharper  glance,  and  a  sharper 
smile  yet,  when  Mr.  Dombey,  drawing  himself  up  before 
the  fire,  in  the  attitude  so  often  copied  by  his  second  in 
command,  looked  round  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls. 
Cursorily  as  his  cold  eye  wandered  over  them,  Carter's 
keen  glance  accompanied  his,  and  kept  pace  witfi  his, 
marking  exactly  where  it  went,  and  what  it  saw.  As  it 
rested  on  one  picture  in  particular,  Carker  hardly  seemed 
'o  breathe,  his  sidelong  scrutiny  was  so  catlike  and  vigi- 
lant, but  the  eye  of  his  great  chief  passed  from  that,  na 
from  the  others,  and  appeared  no  more  impr  .'ssed  by  it 
than  by  the  rest. 

Carker  looked  at  it  —  it  was  tho  picture  that  re- 
sembled Edith — as  if  it  were  a  living  thing;  and  with 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  281 

a  wicked,  silent  laugh  upon  his  face,  (hat  seemed  in  part 
addressed  to  it,  though  it  was  all  derisive  of  the  great 
man  standing  so  unconscious  beside  him.  Breakfast  was 
soon' set  upon  the  table:  and,  inviting  Mr.  Dorabey  to  a 
chair  which  had  its  back  towards  this  picture,  he  took  his 
own  seat  opposite  to  it  as  usual. 

Mr.  Dorabey  was  even  graver  than  it  was  his  custom 
to  be,  and  quite  silent.  The  parrot,  swinging  in  the 
gilded  hoop  within  her  gaudy  cage,  attempted  in  vain  to 
attract  notice,  for  Carker  was  too  observant  of  his  visitor 
to  heed  her ;  and  the  visitor,  abstracted  in  meditation, 
looked  fixedly,  not  to  say  sullenly,  over  his  stiff  neck- 
cloth, without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  table-cloth.  As 
to  Rob,  who  was  in  attendance,  all  his  faculties  and 
energies  were  so  locked  up  in  observation  of  his  master, 
that  he  scarcely  ventured  to  give  shelter  to  the  thought 
that  the  visitor  was  the  great  gentleman  before  whom  he 
had  been  carried  as  a  certificate  of  the  family  health,  in 
his  childhood,  and  to  whom  he  had  been  indebted  for  hia 
leather  smalls. 

"  Allow  me,"  said  Carker,  suddenly,  •'  to  ask  how  Mrs, 
Pombey  is  ?  " 

He  leaned  forward  obsequiously,  as  he  made  the  in- 
quiry, with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand  ;  and  at  the 
same  time  his  eyes  went  up  to  the  picture,  as  if  he 
said  to  it,  "  Now,  see,  how  I  will  lead  him  on ! " 

Mr.  Dombey  reddened  as  he  answered : 

"  Mrs.  Dorabey  is  quite  well.  You  remind  me,  Carker, 
ol   some  conversation  that  I  wish  to  have  with  you." 

"  Robin,  you  can  leave  us,"  said  his  master,  at  whone 
mild  tones  Robin  started  and  disappeared,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  pati-on  to  the  last.  "  You  don'i  remember 
that  boy,  of  course  ? "  hs  added,  when  the  immeshed 
grinder  was  gone. 


232  DOJIBEY  AND  SON. 

"  jSo,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  with  magnificent  indiffer 
ence. 

"  Not  likely  that  a  man  like  you  would.  Hardly  pes* 
Bible,"  muiTQured  Carker.  "  But  he  is  one  of  that  fam- 
ily from  whom  you  took  a  nurse.  Perhaps  you  may 
remember  having  generously  charged  yourself  with  his 
education  ?  " 

"  Is  it  that  boy .'' "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  frown. 
*  He  does  little  credit  to  his  education,  I  believe." 

"  Why,  he  is  a  young  rip,  I  am  afraid,"  retunied  Car* 
ker,  with  a  shrug.  "  He  bears  that  cliaracter.  But  the 
truth  is,  I  took  him  into  my  service  because,  being  able 
to  get  no  other  employment,  he  conceived  (had  been 
taught  at  home,  I  dare  say)  that  he  had  some  sort  of 
claim  upon  you,  and  was  constantly  trying  to  dog  your 
heels  with  his  petition.  And  although  my  defined  and 
recognized  connection  with  your  affairs  is  merely  of  a 
business  character,  still  I  have  that  spontaneous  interest 
in  everything  belonging  to  you,  that  "  — 

He  stopped  again,  as  if  to  discover  whether  he  had 
led  Mr.  Dombey  far  enough  yet  And  again,  with  hia 
chin  resting  on  his  hand,  he  leered  at  the  picture. 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  "  I  am  sensible  that  you 
do  not  limit  your  "  — 

"  Service,"  suggested  his  smiling  entertainer. 

"No;  I  prefer  to  say  your  regard,"  observed  Mr 
Dombey  ;  very  sensible,  as  he  said  so,  thai  he  was  pay- 
ing him  a  handsome  and  flattering  compliment,  "to  oui 
mere  bisiness  relations.  Your  consideration  for  my 
feelings,  hopes,  and  disappointments,  in  the  little  in- 
stance you  have  just  now  mentioned,  is  an  example  in 
ooint.     I  am  obliged  to  you,  Carker." 

Mr.   Carker   bent   his   head   slowly,  and    very   softly 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  233 

rubbed  hits  bands,  as  if  he  were  afraid  Ly  any  action  to 
disturb  the  current  of  Mr.  Dombey's  confidence. 

"  Your  allusion  to  it  is  opportune,"  said  Mr.  Donibey 
after  a  little  hesitation,  "  for  it  prepares  the  way  to  what 
I  was  beginning  to  say  to  you,  and  reminds  me  that  that 
involves  no  absolutely  new  relations  between  us,  although 
it  may  involve  more  personal  confidence  on  my  part 
than  I  have  hitherto  "  — 

"  Distinguished  me  with,"  suggested  Carker,  bending 
his  head  again  :  "  I  will  not  say  to  you  how  honored  I 
am  ;  for  a  man  like  you  well  knows  how  much  honor  he 
has  in  his  power  to  bestow  at  pleasure." 

'*  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  pass- 
ing this  compliment  with  august  self-denial,  "  are  not 
quite  agreed  upon  some  points.  We  do  not  appear  to 
understand  each  other  yet.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  some- 
thing to  learn." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  is  distinguished  by  many  rare  attrac- 
tions ;  and  has  been  accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  receive 
much  adulation,"  said  the  smooth,  sleek  watcher  of  his 
slightest  look  and  tone.  "  But  where  there  is  affection 
duty,  and  respect,  any  little  mistakes  engendered  by 
such  causes  are  soon  set  right." 

Mr.  Dombey's  thoughts  instinctively  flew  back  to  the 
face  that  had  looked  at  him  in  his  wife's  dressing-room, 
when  an  imperious  hand  was  stretched  towards  the  door; 
and  remembering  the  affection,  duty,  and  lespect,  ex- 
pressed in  it,  he  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  own  face 
quite  as  plainly  as  the  watchful  eyes  upon  him  saw  it 
. \here. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "  had 
some  discussion,  before  Mrs.  Skewton's  death,  upon  the 
?auses  of  my  dissatisfaction ;   of  which   3'ou    will    have 


234  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

formed  a  general  understanding  from  having  been  a 
witness  of  what  passed  between  Mrs.  Dombey  and  my- 
Belf  on  the  evening  when  you  were  at  our  —  at  my 
house." 

"  When  I  so  much  regretted  being  present,"  said  the 
smiling  Carker.  "  Proud  as  a  man  in  my  position  ne- 
cessarily must  be  of  your  familiar  notice  —  though  I  give 
you  no  credit  for  it ;  you  may  do  anything  you  please 
without  losing  caste  —  and  honored  as  I  was  by  an  early 
presentation  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  before  she  was  made  em- 
inent by  bearing  your  name,  I  almost  regretted  that 
night,  I  assure  you,  that  I  had  been  the  object  of  such 
especial  good  fortune." 

That  any  man  could,  under  any  possible  circumstances, 
regret  the  being  distinguished  by  his  condescension  and 
patronage,  was  a  moral  phenomenon  which  Mr.  Dombey 
could  not  comprehend.  He  therefore  responded,  with  a 
considerable  accession  of  dignity.  "  Indeed  !  And 
why,  Carker  ?  " 

"  I  fear,"  returned  the  confidential  agent,  "  that  Mrs. 
Dombey,  never  very  much  disposed  to  regard  me  with 
favorable  interest —  one  in  my  position  could  not  expect 
that,  from  a  lady  naturally  proud,  and  whose  pride  be- 
comes her  so  well —  may  not  easily  forgive  ray  innocent 
part  in  that  conversation.  Your  displeasure  is  no  light 
matter,  you  must  remember ;  and  to  be  visited  with  it 
before  a  third  party  "  — 

"  (yarker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  arrogantly  ;  "  I  presume 
that  /am  the  first  consideration  ?  " 

•'  Oh  !  Can  there  be  a  doubt  about  it  ?  "  replied  the 
>ther,  with  the  impatience  of  a  man  admitting  a  noto- 
rous  and  incontrovertible  fact. 

**Mrs.    Dotnbey  becomes   a  secondary  consideration 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  236 

when  we  are  both  in  question,  I  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dom* 
bey.     "Is  that  so?" 

"  Is  it  so  ?  "  returned  Carker.  "  Do  you  know  better 
than  any  one,  that  you  have  no  need  to  ask  ?  " 

"  Then  I  hope,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  that  your 
regret  in  the  acquisition  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  displeasurCj 
may  be  almost  counterbalanced  by  your  satisfaction  in 
retaining  my  confidence  and  good  opinion." 

"  I  have  the  misfortune,  I  find,"  returned  Carker,  "  to 
have  incurred  that  displeasure.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  ex- 
pressed it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  has  expressed  various  opinions,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  with  majestic  coldness  and  indifference, 
"  in  which  I  do  not  participate,  and  which  I  am  not  in- 
clined to  discuss,  or  to  recall.  I  made  Mrs.  Dombey  ac- 
quainted, some  time  since,  as  I  have  already  told  you, 
with  certain  points  of  domestic  deference  and  submission 
on  which  I  felt  it  necessary  to  insist.  I  failed  to  con- 
vince Mr.s.  Dombey  of  the  expediency  of  her  immedi- 
ately altering  her  conduct  in  those  respects,  with  a  view 
to  her  own  peace  and  welfare,  and  my  dignity ;  and  I 
informed  Mrs.  Dombey  that  if  I  should  find  it  necessary 
to  object  or  remonstrate  again,  I  should  express  my 
opinion  to  her  through  yourself,  my  confidential  agent." 

Blended  with  the  look  that  Carker  bent  upon  him,  was 
B  devilish  look  at  the  picture  over  his  head,  that  struck 
upon  it  like  a  flash  of  liglitning.  • 

"  Now,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say  to  you  that  I  will  carry  my  point.  I  am  not  to 
be  trifled  with.  Mrs.  Dombey  must  understand  that  my 
will  is  law,  and  that  I  cannot  allow  of  one  exception  to 
the  whole  rule  of  my  life.  You  will  have  the  goodness 
to  undertake  this  charge,  which,  coming  from  me,  is  not 


236  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

unacceptable  to  you,  I  hope,  whatever  regret  you  may 
politely  profess  —  for  which  I  am  obliged  to  you  on  be- 
half of  Mrs.  Dombey ;  and  you  will  have  the  goodness, 
I  am  persuaded,  to  discharge  it  as  exactly  as  any  othe> 
commission." 

"  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  that  you  have  only  tn 
command  me." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  majestic  indi- 
cation of  assent,  "  that  I  have  only  to  command  you.  It 
is  necessary  that  I  should  proceed  in  this.  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey is  a  lady  undoubtedly  highly  qualified,  in  many  re- 
spects, to  "  — 

"  To  do  credit  even  to  your  choice,"  suggested  Carker, 
with  a  fawning  show  of  teeth. 

"  Yes  ;  if  you  please  to  adopt  that  form  of  words," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  tone  of  state  ;  "  and  at  present 
I  do  not  conceive  that  Mrs.  Dombey  does  that  credit  to 
it,  to  which  it  is  entitled.  There  is  a  principle  of  oppo- 
sition in  Mrs.  Dombey  that  must  be  eradicated ;  that 
must  be  overcome :  Mrs.  Dombey  does  not  appear  to 
understand,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  forcibly,  "  that  the  idea 
of  opposition  to  Me  is  monstrous  and  absurd." 

''  We,  in  the  City,  know  yoti  better,"  replied  Carker, 
with  a  smile  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  You  know  me  better,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I  hope 
BO.  Though,  indeed,  I  am  bound  to  do  Mrs.  Dombey 
the  justice  of  saying,  however  inconsistent  it  may  seem 
with  her  subsequent  conduct  (which  remains  unchanged) 
that  c-n  ray  expressing  my  disapprobation  and  determi* 
nation  to  lier,  with  some  severity,  on  the  occasion  to 
which  I  have  referred,  my  admonition  appeared  to  pro- 
duce a  very  powerful  effect."  Mr.  Dombey  delivered 
himself  of  tlvose  words  with  most  portentous  stateliness. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  237 

"  I  wish  you  to  have  the  goodness,  then,  to  inform  Mrs. 
Donibey,  Carker,  from  me,  that  I  must  recall  our  former 
con\ersation  to  her  remembrance,  in  some  surprise  that 
it  has  not  yet  had  its  effect.  That  I  must  insist  upon 
her  regulating  her  conduct  by  the  injunctions  laid  upon 
her  in  that  conversation.  That  I  am  not  satisfied  with 
her  conduct.  That  I  am  greatly  dissatisfied  with  it.  And 
that  I  shall  be  under  the  very  disagreeable  necessity  of 
making  you  the  bearer  of  yet  more  unwelcome  and  ex- 
plicit communications,  if  she  has  not  the  good  sense  and 
the  proper  feeling  to  adapt  herself  to  my  wishes,  as  the 
first  Mrs.  Dombey  did,  and,  I  believe  I  may  add,  sm 
any  other  lady  in  her  place  would." 

''  The  fir^t  Mrs.  Dombey  lived  very  happily,"  said 
Carker. 

"  Tlie  first  Mrs.  Dombey  had  great  good  sense,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  gentlemanly  toleration  of  the  dead, 
'•  and  very  correct  feeling." 

*•  Is  Miss  Dombey  like  her  mother,  do  you  think  ?  " 
said  Carker. 

Swiftly  and  darkly,  Mr.  Dorabey's  face  changed.  His 
confidential  agent  eyed  it  keenly. 

"  I  have  approached  a  painful  subject,"  he  said,  in  a 
Boft  regi'etful  tone  of  voice,  irreconcilable  with  his  eager 
eye.  "  Pray  forgive  me.  I  forget  these  chains  of  asso- 
ciation in  the  interest  I  have.     Pray  forgive  me. ' 

But  for  all  he  said,  his  eager  eye  scanned  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  downcast  face  none  the  less  closely ;  and  then  it 
shot  a  strange  triumphant  look  at  the  picture,  as  appeal- 
ing to  it  to  bear  witness  how  he  led  him  on  again,  and 
what  was  coming, 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  here  and  there 
ujjon  the  table,  and  speaking  in  a  somewhat  altered  and 


tSS  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

more  hurried  voice,  and  with  a  paler  lip,  "  there  is  no 
occasion  for  apology.  You  mistake.  The  association  is 
with  the  matter  in  hand,  and  not  with  any  recollection, 
as  you  suppose.  I  do  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Dorabey'a 
behavior  towards   my  daughter." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  don't  quite  uudei^ 
stand." 

"  Understand  then,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  that  yon 
may  make  that  —  that  you  toill  make  that,  if  you  please 
—  matter  of  direct  objection  from  me  to  Mrs.  Dombey. 
You  will  please  to  tell  her  that  her  show  of  devotion  for 
my  daughter  is  disagreeable  to  me.  It  is  likely  to  be 
noticed.  It  is  likely  to  induce  people  to  contrast  Mrs. 
Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  my  daughter,  with  Mrs. 
Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  myself.  You  will  have 
the  goodness  to  let  Mrs.  Dombey  know,  plainly,  that  I 
object  to  it ;  and  that  I  expect  her  to  defer,  immediately, 
to  my  objection.  Mrs.  Dombey  may  be  in  earnest,  or 
she  may  be  pursuing  a  whim,  or  she  may  be  opposing 
me ;  but  I  object  to  it  in  any  case,  and  in  every  case. 
If  Mrs.  Dombey  is  in  earnest,  so  much  the  less  reluctant 
should  she  be  to  desist ;  for  she  will  not  serve  my 
daughter  by  any  such  display.  If  my  wife  iias  any 
Buperfluous  gentleness,  and  duty  over  and  above  hei 
proper  submission  to  me,  she  may  bestow  them  where 
uhe  pleases,  perhaps ;  but  I  will  have  submission  first !  — 
Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  checking  the  unusual  emo- 
tion with  which  he  had  spoken,  and  falling  into  a  tone 
more  like  that  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  assert  hia 
greatness,  "  you  will  have  the  goodness  not  to  omit  or 
ilur  this  point,  but  to  consider  it  a  very  important  part 
»f  your  instructions." 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  his  head,  and  rising  from  the  table. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  239 

and  standing  thoughtfully  before  the  fire,  with  his  hand 
to  his  smooth  chin,  looked  down  at  Mr.  Dombey  with 
the  evil  slyness  of  some  monkish  carving,  half  human 
and  half  brute  ;  or  like  a  leering  face  on  an  old  water- 
spout. Mr.  Dombey,  recovering  his  composure  I'y  de- 
grees, or  cooling  his  emotion  in  his  sense  of  having  'aken 
a  high  position,  sat  gradually  stiffening  again,  and  look- 
ing at  the  parrot  as  she  swung  to  and  fro,  in  her  ^reat 
wedding-ring, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Carher,  after  a  silence,  sud- 
denly resuming  his  chair,  and  drawing  it  opposite  to  Mr. 
Dombey's,  "but  let  me  understand.  Mrs.  Dombey  is 
aware  of  the  probability  of  your  making  me  the  organ 
of  your  displeasure  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey.     **  I  have  said  so." 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  Carker,  quickly  ;  "  but  why  ?  " 

"  Why  ! "  Mr.  Dombey  repeated,  not  without  hesita- 
tion.    "  Because  I  told  her." 

.  "  Ay,"  replied  Carker.  "  But  wliy  did  you  tell  her  ? 
You  see,"'  he  continued  with  a  smile,  and  softly  laying 
his  velvet  hand,  as  a  cat  might  have  laid  its  sheathed 
claws,  on  Mr.  Dombey's  arm  ;  "if  I  perfectly  understand 
what  is  in  your  mind,  I  am  so  much  more  likely  to  be 
useful,  and  to  have  the  happiness  of  being  effectually 
employed.  I  tliink  I  do  understand.  I  have  not  the 
honor  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  good  opinion.  In  my  position, 
I  have  no  reason  to  expect  it ;  but  I  take  the  fact  to  be, 
t  lat  I  have  not  got  it  ?  " 

"  Possibly  not,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Consequently,"  pursued  Carker,  "  your  making  these 
vommunications  to  Mrs.  Dombey  through  me,  is  sure  to 
be  particularly  unpalatable  to  that  lady  .'*  " 

"It  appears  to  me,"  said  Mr,  Dombey,  wiih  haughty 


HO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

retjerve,  and  yet  with  some  embarrassment,  "  that  Mra 
Dombey's  views  upon  the  subject  form  no  part  of  it  as  it 
presents  itself  to  you  and  me,  Carker.  But  it  may  be 
so." 

"And  —  pardon  me  —  do  I  misconceive  you,"  said 
Carker,  "when  I  tliink  you  descry  in  this,  a  like.'y  means 
of  humbling  Mrs.  Dombey's  pride  —  I  use  the  word  as 
expressive  of  a  quality  which,  kept  within  due  bouads, 
adorns  and  graces  a  lady  so  distinguished  for  her  beauty 
and  accomplishments  —  and,  not  to  say  of  punishing  her, 
but  of  reducing  her  to  the  submission  you  so  naturally 
and  justly  require  ?  " 

*'  I  am  not  accustomed,  Carker,  as  you  know,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  give  such  close  reasons  for  any  course 
of  conduct  I  think  proper  to  adopt,  but  I  will  gainsay 
nothing  of  this.  If  you  have  any  objection  to  found  upon 
it,  that  is  indeed  another  thing,  and  the  mere  statement 
that  you  have  one  will  be  sufficient.  But  I  have  not 
supposed,  I  confess,  that  any  confidence  I  could  intrust 
to  you,  would  be  likely  to  degrade  you  "  — 

"  Oh  !  1  degraded  !  "  exclaimed  Carker.  "  In  your 
service  ! " 

'*  —  or  to  place  you,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  in  a 
false  position." 

"  /  in  a  false  position  1 "  exclaimed  Carker.  "  I  shall 
be  proud  —  delighted  —  to  execute  your  trust  1  could 
have  wished,  I  own,  to  have  given  the  lady  at  whose  feet 
I  would  lay  my  humble  duty  and  devotion — for  is  she 
not  your  wife  !  —  no  new  cause  of  dislike ;  but  a  wish 
from  you  is,  of  course,  paramount  to  every  other  con- 
sidei-ation  on  earth.  Besides,  when  Mrs.  Dombey  is 
converted  from  thrsse  little  errors  of  judgment,  incidental, 
I  would  presume  to  say,  to  the  novelty  ot  her  situatioa 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  241 

I  shall  hope  that  she  will  perceive  in  the  slight  part  1 
lake,  only  a  grain  —  my  removed  and  different  sphere 
gives  room  for  little  more  —  of  the  respect  for  you,  and 
sacrifice  of  all  considerations  to  you,  of  which  it  will  be 
her  pleasure  and  privilege  to  garner  up  a  great  store 
every  day." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  at  the  moment,  again  to  see  hei 
with  her  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  door,  and  again 
to  hear  through  the  mild  speech  of  his  confidential  agenl 
an  echo  of  the  words,  "  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to 
each  other  than  we  are  henceforth  ! "  But  he  shook  off 
the  fancy,  and  did  not  shake  in  his  resolution,  and  said, 
"  Certainly,  no  doubt." 

"  There  is  nothing  more,"  quoth  Carker,  drawing  hia 
chair  back  to  its  old  place  — for  they  had  taken  little 
breakfast  as  yet  —  and  pausing  for  an  answer  before 
he  sat  down. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  but  this.  You  will  be 
good  enough  to  observe,  Carker,  that  no  message  to  Mrs. 
Dombey  with  wliich  you  are  or  may  be  charged,  admits 
of  reply.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  bring  me  no 
reply.  Mrs.  Dombey  is  informed  that  it  does  not  be- 
come me  to  temporize  or  treat  upon  any  matter  that  is 
nt  issue  between  us,  and  that  what  I  say  is  final." 

Mr.  Carker  signified  his  understanding  of  these  cre- 
dentials, and  they  fell  to  breakfast  with  what  appetite 
Ihey  might.  The  Grinder  also,  in  due  time,  reappeared, 
keeping  his  eyes  upon  his  master  without  a  moment's 
respite,  and  passing  the  time  in  a  revery  of  worshipful 
terror.  Breakfast  concluded,  Mr.  Dombey's  horse  was 
ordered  out  again,  and  Mr.  Carker  mounting  his  own, 
\hey  rode  off  for  the  City  together. 

Mr.  Carker  was  in  capital  spirits,  and  talked  much. 
VOL.  III.  16 


i42  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Mr.  Dorabey  received  his  conversation  with  the  sover 
sign  air  of  a  man  who  had  a  right  to  be  talked  to,  and 
occasionally  condescended  to  throw  in  a  few  words  to 
carry  on  the  conversation.  So  they  rode  on  character- 
istically enough.  But  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  dignity,  rode 
lurith  very  long  stirrup?,  and  a  very  loose  rein,  and  very 
rarely  deigned  to  look  down  to  see  where  his  horse  went. 
In  consequence  of  which  it  happened  that  Mr.  Domb(!y*a 
horse,  while  going  at  a  round  trot  stumbled  on  some  loose 
stones,  threw  him,  rolled  over  him,  and  lashing  out  with 
his  iron-shod  feet,  in  his  struggles  to  get  up,  kicked  him. 

Mr.  Carker,  quick  of  eye,  steaidy  of  hand,  and  a  good 
horseman,  was  afoot,  and  had  the  struggling  animal  upon 
his  legs  and  by  the  bridle,  in  a  moment.  Otherwise  that 
morning's  confidence  would  have  been  Mr.  Dombey's 
last.  Yet  even  with  the  flush  and  hurry  of  this  action 
red  upon  him,  he  bent  over  his  prostrate  chief  with 
every  tooth  disclosed,  and  muttered  as  he  stooped  down, 
"I  have  given  good  cause  of  offence  to  Mrs.  Dombey 
now,  if  she  knew  it  I  " 

Mr.  Dombey  being  insensible,  and  bleeding  from  the 
head  and  face,  was  carried  by  certain  menders  of  the 
road,  under  Carker's  direction,  to  the  nearest  public- 
house,  which  was  not  far  off,  and  where  he  was  soon  at- 
tended by  divers  surgeons,  who  arrived  in  quick  succes- 
sion from  all  parts,  and  who  seemed  to  come  by  some 
mysterious  instinct,  as  vultures  are  said  to  gather  about 
a  camel  who  dies  in  the  desert.  After  being  at  soino 
pains  to  restore  him  to  consciousness,  thes*'  gentlemen 
examined  into  the  nature  of  his  injuries.  One  surgeon 
who  lived  hard  by  was  strong  for  a  compound  fracture 
>f  the  leg,  which  was  the  landlord's  opinion  aho;  but 
two  surgeons  who  lived  at  a  distance,  and  were  only  iii 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  243 

that  neighborhood  by  accident,  combated  this  opinion  so 
disinterestedly,  that  it  was  decided  at  last  thjit  the  pa 
tient,  though  severely  cut  and  bruised,  had  broken  no 
l)ones  but  a  lesser  rib  or  so,  and  might  be  carefully  taken 
home  before  night.  His  injuries  being  dressed  and 
bandaged,  which  was  a  long  operation,  and  he  at  length 
left  to  repose,  Mr.  Carker  mounted  his  horse  again,  and 
rode  away  to  carry  the  intelligence  home. 

Crafty  and  cruel  as  his  face  was  at  the  best  of  times, 
though  it  was  a  sufficiently  fair  face  as  to  form  and 
regularity  of  feature,  it  was  at  its  worst  when  he  set 
forth  on  this  errand  ;  animated  by  the  craft  and  cruelty 
of  thoughts  within  him,  suggestions  of  remote  possibility 
rather  than  of  design  or  plot,  that  made  him  ride  as  if 
he  hunted  men  and  women.  Drawing  rein  at  length, 
and  slackening  in  his  speed,  as  he  came  into  the  more 
public  roads,  he  checked  his  white-legged  horse  into  pick- 
ing his  way  along  as  usual,  and  hid  himself  benehth  his 
sleek,  hushed,  crouching  manner,  and  his  ivory  smile,  as 
he  best  could. 

He  rode  direct  to  Mr.  Dorabey's  house,  alighted  at  the 
door,  and  begged  to  see  Mrs.  Dombey  on  an  affair  of 
importance.  The  servant  who  showed  him  to  Mr.  Dora- 
bey's own  room,  soon  returned  to  say  that  it  was  not 
Mrs.  Dombey's  hour  for  receiving  visitors,  and  that  he 
begged  pardon  for  not  having  mentioned  it  before. 

Mr.  Carker,  who  was  quite  prepared  for  a  cold  recep- 
tion, wrote  upon  a  card  that  he  must  take  the  liberty  of 
j)ressing  for  an  interview,  and  that  he  would  not  be  so 
bold  as  to  do  so, /or  the  second  time  (this  he  underlined), 
f  he  were  not  equally  sure  of  the  occasion  being  suf- 
ficient for  his  justification.  After  a  trifling  delay,  Mrs. 
Dombey's  maid  appeared,  and  conducted  him  to  a  var-a 


244  DOMBEI  AND  SON". 

ing  room  up-stairs,  where  Edith  and  Florence  were  U> 
gether. 

He  had  never  thought  Edith  half  so  beautiful  be- 
fore. Much  as  he  admired  the  graces  of  her  face  and 
form,  and  freshly  as  they  dwelt  within  his  sensual 
remembrance,  he  had  never  thought  her  half  so  beau- 
tiful. 

Her  glance  fell  haughtily  upon  him  in  the  door-way ; 
but  he  looked  at  Florence  —  though  only  in  the  act  of 
bending  his  head,  as  he  came  in  —  with  some  irrepres- 
sible expression  of  the  new  power  he  held  ;  and  it  was 
his  triumph  to  see  the  glance  droop  and  falter,  and  to 
see  that  Edith  half  rose  up  to  receive  him. 

He  was  very  sorry,  he  was  deeply  grieved ;  he  couldn't 
say  with  what  unwillingness  he  came  to  prepare  her  for 
the  intelligence  of  a  very  slight  accident.  He  entreated 
Mrs.  Dombey  to  compose  herself.  Upon  his  sacred 
word  of  honor,  there  was  no  cause  of  alarm.  But  Mr. 
Dombey  — 

Florence  uttered  a  sudden  cry.  He  did  not  look  at 
her,  but  at  Edith.  Edith  composed  and  reassured  hei. 
She  uttered  no  cry  of  distress.     No,  no. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  met  with  an  accident  in  riding.  His 
horse  had  slipped,  and  he  had  been  thrown. 

Florence  wildly  exclaimed  that  he  was  badly  hurt ; 
that  he  was  killed  ! 

No.     Upon  his  honor,  Mr.  Dombey,  though  stunned 
at  first,  was  soon  recovered,  and  though  certainly  hurt- 
was  in  no  kind  of  danger.     If  this  were  not  the  truth, . 
Ue,  the  distressed   intruder,   never  could  have  had  the 
courage  to  present  himself  before  Mrs.  Dombey.     It  waa 
the  truth  indeed,  he  solemnly  assured  her. 

All  this  he  said  as  if  he  were  answering  Edith,  aiid 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  245 

not  Florence,  and  with  his  eyes  and  his  smile  fjii-tcned 
on   Edith. 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  her  where  Mr.  Dorobey  was 
lying,  and  to  request  that  a  carriage  might  be  pla-jed  at 
his  di>po?al  to  bring  him  home. 

"  Mama,"  faltered  Florence  in  tears,  "  If  I  might  ven 
tiire  to  go  !  " 

Mr.  Carker,  having  his  eyes  on  Edith  when  he  heard 
these  words,  gave  her  a  secret  look  and  slightly  shook  hia 
head.  He  saw  how  she  battled  with  herself  before  she 
answered  him  with  her  handsome  eyes,  but  he  wrested 
the  answer  from  her  —  he  showed  her  that  he  would 
have  it,  or  that  he  would  speak  and  cut  Florence  to  the 
heart — and  she  gave  it  to  him.  As  he  had  looked  at 
the  picture  in  the  morning,  so  he  looked  at  her  after- 
wards, when  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"  I  am  directed  to  request,"  he  said,  "  that  the  new 
house-keeper  —  Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  think,  is  the  name  "  — 

Nothing  escaped  him.  He  saw,  in  an  instant,  that  she 
was  another  slight  of  Mr.  Dombey's  on  his  wife. 

—  "  may  be  informed  that  Mr.  Dombey  wishes  to  have 
his  bed  prepared  in  his  own  apartments  down-stairs,  as 
he  pi'efers  those  rooms  to  any  other.  I  shall  return  to 
Mr.  Dombey  almost  immediately.  That  every  possible 
attention  has  been  paid  to  his  comfort,  and  that  he  ia 
the  object  of  every  possible  solicitude,  I  need  not  assure 
you,  madam.  Let  me  again  say,  there  is  no  cause  for 
the  least  alarm.  Even  you  may  be  quite  at  ease,  bo- 
fieve  me." 

He  bowed  himself  out,  with  his  extreraest  show  of 
Reference  and  conciliation  ;  and  having  returned  to  Mr. 
Oombey's  room,  and  there  arranged  for  a  carriage  being 
lent  after  him  to  the  City,  mounted  his  horse  again,  and 


246  DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 

rode  slowly  thither.  He  was  very -thoughtful  as  he  went 
along,  and  very  thoughtful  there,  and  very  thoughtful  in 
the  carriage  on  his  way  back  to  the  place  where  Mr. 
Dorabey  had  been  left.  It  was  only  when  sitting  by  that 
g<',ntleman's  couch  that  he  was  quite  himself  again,  aud 
conscious  of  his  teeth. 

About  the  time  of  twilight,  Mr.  Dombey,  grievously 
afflicted  with  aches  and  pains,  was  helped  into  his  car- 
riage, and  propped  with  cloaks  and  pillows  on  one  side 
of  it,  while  his  confidential  agent  bore  him  company 
upon  the  other.  As  he  was  not  to  be  shaken,  they  moved 
at  little  more  than  a  foot  pace ;  and  hence  it  was  quite 
dark  when  he  was  brought  home.  Mrs.  Pipchin,  bitter 
and  grim,  and  not  oblivious  of  the  Peruvian  mines,  as 
the  establishment  in  general  had  good  reason  to  know, 
received  him  at  the  door,  and  freshened  the  domestics 
with  several  little  sprinklings  of  wordy  vinegar,  while 
they  assisted  in  conveying  him  to  his  room.  Mr.  Carker 
remained  in  attendance  until  he  was  safe  in  bed,  and 
then,  as  he  declined  to  receive  any  female  visitor,  but  the 
excellent  Ogress  who  presided  over  his  household,  waited 
on  Mrs.  Dombey  once  more,  with  his  report  on  her  lord's 
condition. 

He  again  found  Edith  alone  with  Florence,  and  he 
again  addressed  the  whole  of  his  soothing  speech  to 
Edith,  as  if  she  were  a  prey  to  the  liveliest  and  most 
affectionate  anxieties.  So  earnest  he  was  in  his  respect- 
ful sympathy,  that,  on  taking  leave,  he  ventured  —  with 
one  more  glance  towards  Florence  at  the  moment  —  to 
take  her  hand,  and  bending  over  it,  to  touch  it  with  his 
lips. 

Edith  did  not  withdraw  the  hand,  nor  did  she  strike 
his  fair  face  with  it,  despite  the  flush  upon  her    vheek. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  247 

the  bright  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  dilation  of  her 
whole  form.  But  when  she  was  alone  in  her  own  room, 
she  struck  it  on  the  marble  chimney-shelf,  so  that,  at  one 
blow,  it  was  bruised,  and  bled ;  and  held  it  from  her, 
near  the  shining  fire,  as  if  she  could  have  thrust  it  in 
and  burned  it. 

Far  into  the  night  she  sat  alone,  by  the  sinking  blaze, 
in  dark  and  threatening  beauty,  watching  the  murky 
shadows  looming  on  the  wall,  as  if  her  thoughts  were 
tangible,  and  cast  them  there.  Whatever  shapes  of  out- 
rage and  affront,  and  black  foreshadowings  of  things 
that  might  happen,  flickered,  indistinct  and  giant-like, 
before  her,  one  resented  figure  marshalled  them  against 
ber.    And  that  figure  was  her  husband. 


248  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE   -WATCHES   OF   THE  NIGHT. 

Florence,  long  since  awakened  from  her  dream^ 
naoumfully  observed  the  estrangement  between  her  fathei 
and  Edith,  and  saw  it  widen  more  and  more,  and  knew 
that  there  was  greater  bitterness  between  them  every 
day.  Each  day's  added  knowledge  deepened  the  shade 
upon  her  love  and  hope,  roused  up  the  old  sorrow  that 
had  slumbered  for  a  little  time,  and  made  it  even  heavier 
to  bear  than  it  had  been  before. 

It  had  been  hard  —  how  hard  may  none  but  Florence 
ever  know  !  —  to  have  the  natural  affection  of  a  true  and 
earnest  nature  turned  to  agony ;  and  slight,  or  stern  re- 
pulse, substituted  for  the  tenderest  protection  and  the 
dearest  care.  It  had  been  hard  to  feel  in  her  deep 
heart  what  she  had  felt,  and  never  know  the  happiness 
of  one  touch  of  response.  But  it  was  much  more  hard 
to  be  compelled  to  doubt  either  her  father  or  Edith,  so 
affectionate  and  dear  to  her,  and  to  think  of  her  love 
tor  each  of  them,  by  turns,  with  fear,  distrust,  and 
wonder. 

Yet  Florence  now  began  to  do  so ;  and  the  doing  of 
it  was  a  task  imposed  upon  her  by  the  very  purity  of 
her  soul,  as  one  she  could  not  fly  from.  She  saw  her 
father  cold  and  obdurate  to  Edith,  as  to  her ;  hard,  in- 
dexible, unyielding.     Could  it  be,  she  asked  herself  witli 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  249 

Starting  tears  that  her  own  dear  mother  had  been  made 
unliappy  by  oUch  treatment,  and  had  pined  away  and 
died  ?  Then  she  would  think  how  proud  and  stately 
Edith  was  to  every  one  but  her,  with  what  disdain  she 
treated  him,  how  distantly  she  kept  apart  from  him,  and 
what  she  had  said  on  the  night  when  she  came  home 
and  quickly  it  would  come  on  Florence,  almost  as  a 
crime,  that  she  loved  one  who  was  set  in  opposition  to 
her  father,  and  that  her  father  knowing  of  it,  must  think 
of  her  in  his  solitary  room  as  the  unnatural  child  who 
added  this  wrong  to  the  old  fault,  so  much  wept  for,  of 
never  having  won  his  fatherly  affection  from  her  birth. 
The-  next  kind  word  from  Edith,  the  next  kind  glance, 
would  shake  these  thoughts  again,  and  make  them  seem 
like  black  ingratitude  ;  for  who  but  she  hdd  cheered  the 
drooping  heart  of  Florence,  so  lonely  and  so  hurt,  and 
been  its  best  of  comfortei's !  Thus,  with  her  gentle  na- 
ture yearning  to  them  both,  feeling  the  misery  of  both, 
a!id  whispering  doubts  of  her  own  duty  to  both,  Flor- 
ence in  her  wider  and  expanded  love,  and  by  the  side 
of  Edith,  endured  more,  than  when  she  had  hoarded  up 
her  undivided  secret  in  the  mournful  house,  and  her 
beautiful  mama  had  never  dawned  upon  it. 

One  exquisite  unhappiness  that  would  have  far  out- 
fc'eighed  this,  Florence  was  spared.  She  never  had  the 
least  suspicion  that  Edith  by  her  tenderness  for  her 
widened  the  separation  from  her  father,  or  gave  him 
new  cause  of  dislike.  If  Florence  had  conceived  the 
possibility  of  such  an  effect  being  wrought  by  such  a 
cause,  what  grief  she  would  have  felt,  what  sacrifice 
she  would  have  tried  to  make,  poor  loving  girl,  how  fast 
and  sure  her  quiet  passage  might  have  beer  beneath  it 
4)  the  presence  of  thai  higher  Father  who  does  not  re- 


250  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

ject  his  children's  love,  or  spurn  their  tried  and  broken 
hearts,  Heaven  knows !  But  it  was  otherwise,  and  that 
was  well. 

No  word  was  ever  spoken  between  Florence  and  Edith 
now,  on  these  subjects.  Edith  had  said  there  ought  to 
be  between  them,  in  that  wise,  a  division  and  a  silence 
like  the  grave  itself:  and  Florence  felt  that  she  was 
right. 

In  this  state  of  affairs  her  father  was  brought  home 
Buffering  and  disabled :  and  gloomily  retired  to  his  own 
rooms,  where  he  was  tended  by  servants,  not  approached 
by  Edith,  and  had  no  friend  or  companion  but  Mr.  Carker, 
who  withdrew  near  midnight. 

"  And  nice  company  he  is.  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan 
Nipper.  "  Oh,  he's  a  precious  piece  of  goods  !  If  ever 
he  wants  a  character  don't  let  him  come  to  me  whatever 
he  does,  that's  all  I  tell  him." 

"  Dear  Susan,"  urged  Florence,  "  don't !  " 

"  Oh  it's  very  well  to  say  *  don't'  Miss  Floy,"  returned 
the  Nipper,  much  exasperated  ;  "  but  raly  begging  your 
pardon  we're  coming  to  such  passes  that  it  turns  all  the 
blood  in  a  person's  body  into  pins  and  needles,  with  their 
pints  all  ways.  Don't  mistake  me,  Miss  Floy,  I  don't 
mean  nothing  again  your  ma-in-law  who  has  alwaya 
treated  me  as  a  lady  should  though  she  is  rather  high  1 
must  say,  not  that  I  have  any  right  to  object  to  that 
particular,  but  when  we  come  to  Mrs.  Pipchinses  and 
having  them  put  over  us  and  keeping  guard  at  your 
pa's  door  like  crocodiles  (only  make  us  thankful  that 
they  lay  no  eggs ! )  we  are  growing  too  outrageous  I  " 

"  Papa  thinks  well  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Susan,"  returned 
Florence,  "  and  has  a  right  to  choose  his  house-keeper 
you  know.     Pray  don't !  " 


DOMBEl   .IlND  son.  251 

"  "Well,  Miss  Floy,"  returned  the  Nipper,  "  irhen  yoa 
gay  don't,  I  never  do  I  hope,  but  Mrs.  Pip»chin  acta 
like  early  gooseberries  upon  me  miss,  and  nothing 
less." 

Susan  was  unusually  emphatic  and  destitute  of  punc- 
tuation in  her  discourse  on  this  night,  which  was  the 
night  of  Mr.  Dombey's  being  brought  home,  because, 
having  been  sent  down-stairs  by  Florence  to  inquire 
after  him,  she  had  been  obliged  to  deliver  her  message 
to  her  mortal  enemy  Mrs.  Pipchin  ;  who,  without  carry- 
ing it  in  to  Mr.  Dombey  had  taken  upon  herself  to  re- 
turn what  Miss  Nipper  called  a  huffish  answer,  on  her 
own  responsibility.  This,  Susan  Nipper  construed  into 
presumption  on  the  part  of  that  exemplary  sufferer  by 
the  Peruvian  mines,  and  a  deed  of  disparagement  upon 
her  young  lady,  that  was  not  to  be  forgiven  ;  and  so  far 
her  emphatic  state  was  special.  But  she  had  been  in  a 
condition  of  greatly  increased  suspicion  and  distrust,  ever 
since  the  marriage  ;  for,  like  most  persons  of  her  quality 
of  mind,  who  form  a  strong  and  sincere  attachment  to 
one  in  the  different  station  which  Florence  occupied, 
Susan  was  very  jealous,  and  her  jealousy  naturally  at- 
tached to  Edith,  who  divided  her  old  empire,  and  came 
between  them.  Proud  and  glad  as  Susan  Nipper  truly 
was,  that  her  young  mistress  should  be  advanced  towards 
her  proper  place  in  the  scene  of  her  old  neglect,  and 
that  she  should  have  her  father's  handsome  wife  for  her 
companion  and  protectress,  she  could  not  relinquish  any 
■'art  of  her  own  dominion  to  the  handsome  wife,  witlioul 

grudge  and  a  vague  feeling  of  ill-will,  for  which  she 
did  not  fail  to  find  a  disinterested  justification  in  her 
sharp  perception  of  the  pride  and  passion  of  the  lady's 
character.      Fx'om    the    backsi-ound    to   which    she    had 


i52  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

necessarily  retired  somewhat,  since  the  marriage,  Misd 
Nipper  looked  on,  therefore,  at  domestic  affairs  in  gen- 
eral, with  a  resolute  conviction  that  no  good  would  come 
of  Mrs.  Doinbey  ;  always  being  very  careful  to  publish 
on  all  possible  occasions,  that  she  had  nothing  to  say 
against  her. 

"  Susan,"  said  Florence,  who  was  sitting  thoughtfully 
at  her  table,  "  it  is  very  late.  I  shall  want  nothing  more 
to-night." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Floy !  "  returned  the  Nipper,  "  I'm  sure 
1  often  wish  for  them  old  times  when  I  sat  up  with  you 
hours  later  than  this  and  fell  asleep  through  being  tired 
out  when  you  was  as  broad  awake  as  spectacles,  but 
you've  ma's-in-law  to  come  and  sit  with  you  now,  Misa 
Floy  and  I'm  thankful  for  it  I'm  sure.  I've  not  a  word 
to  say  against  'em." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  who  was  my  old  companion  when 
I  had  none,  Susan,"  returned  Florence,  gently,  "never!" 
And  looking  up,  she  put  her  arm  round  the  neck  of  her 
humble  friend,  drew  her  face  down  to  hers,  and  bidding 
her  good-night,  kissed  it ;  which  -^o  mollified  Miss  Nip- 
per, that  she  fell  a-sobbnig. 

"  Now  my  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan,  ''  let  me  go 
down-stairs  again  and  see  how  your  pa  is,  I  know  you're 
,  wretched  about  him,  do  let  me  go  down-stairs  again  and 
knock  at  his  door  my  own  self." 

"  No,"  said  Florence,  "  go  to  bed.  We  shall  hear 
more  in  the  morning.  I  will  inquire  myself  in  the 
morning.  Mama  has  been  down,  I  dare  say ; "  Flor- 
ence blushed,  for  she  had  no  such  hope ;  "  or  is  there 
DOW,  perhaps.     Good-night !  " 

Susan  was  too  much  softened  to  express  her  j)rivate 
opinion  on  the  probability  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  being  in 


DOMBEY  AND  SOK.  258 

attendance  on  her  husband ;  and  silently  withdrew. 
Florence,  left  alone,  soon  hid  her  head  upon  her  handa 
as  she  had  often  done  in  other  days,  and  did  not  restrain 
the  tears  from  coursing- down  her  face.  The  misery  of 
this  domestic  discord  and  unhappiness  ;  the  withered 
hope  she  cherished  now,  if  hope  it  could  be  called,  of 
ever  being  taken  to  her  father's  heart ;  her  doubts  and 
fears  between  the  two ;  the  yearning  of  her  innocent 
breast  to  both ;  the  heavy  disappointment  and  regret  of 
such  an  end  as  this,  to  what  had  been  a  vision  of  brigJit 
hope  and  promise  to  her ;  all  crowded  on  her  mind  and 
raad<^  her  tears  flow  fast.  Her  mother  and  her  brother 
dead,  her  father  unmoved  towards  her,  Edith  opposed  to 
bira  and  casting  him  away,  but  loving  her,  and  loved  by 
her,  it  seemed  as  if  her  affection  could  never  prosper, 
rest  where  it  would.  That  weak  thought  was  soon 
hushed,  but  the  thoughts  in  which  it  had  arisen  were 
too  true  and  strong  to  be  dismissed  with  it;  and  they 
made  the  night  desolate. 

Among  such  reflections  there  rose  up,  as  there  had 
risen  up  all  day,  the  image  of  her  father,  wounded  and 
in  pain,  alone  in  his  own  room,  untended  by  those  who 
should  be  nearest  to  him,  and  passing  the  tardy  hours  in 
lonely  suffering.  A  frightened  thought  which  made  her 
start  and  clasp  her  hands  —  though  it  was  not  a  new  one 
in  her  mind  —  that  he  might  die,  and  never  see  her  or 
pronounce  lier  name,  thrilled  her  whole  frame.  In  her 
agitation  she  thought,  and  trembled  while  she  thought 
of  once  more  stealing  down-stairs,  and  venturing  to  his 
do*  a*. 

She  listened  at  her  own.  ,  The  house  was  quiet,  and 
ftU  tiie  lights  were  out.  It  was  a  long,  long  tinrg,  she 
thought,  since  she  used  to  make  her  nightly  pilgrimage* 


254  DOMBEr  AND  SOS. 

to  his  door  !  It  was  a  long,  long  time,  she  tried  to  think, 
since  she  hud  entered  his  room  at  midnight,  and  he  had 
led  her  back  to  the  stair-foot ! 

With  the  same  child's  heart  within  her,  as  of  old : 
even  with  the  child's  sweet  timid  eyes  and  clustering 
hair:  Florence  as  strange  to  her  father  in  her  early 
maiden  bloom,  as  in  her  nursery  time,  crept  down  the 
Btaircase,  listening  as  she  went,  and  drew  near  to  hia 
room.  No  one  was  stirring  in  the  house.  The  door  was 
partly  open  to  admit  air ;  and  all  was  so  still  within,  that 
she  could  hear  the  burning  of  the  fire,  and  count  the  tick- 
ing of  the  clock  that  stood  upon  the  chimney-piece. . 

She  looked  in.  In  that  room,  the  house-keeper  wrapped 
in  a  blanket  was  fast  asleep  in  an  easy-chair  before  the 
6re.  The  doors  between  it  and  the  next  were  partly 
closed,  and  a  screen  was  drawn  before  them ;  but  there 
was  a  light  there,  and  it  shone  upon  the  cornice  of  his 
bed.  All  was  so  very  still  that  she  could  hear  from  hia 
breathing  that  he  was  asleep.  This  gave  her  courage  to 
pass  round  the  screen,  and  look  into  his  chamber. 

It  was  as  great  a  start  to  come  upon  his  sleeping  face 
as  if  she  had  not  expected  to  see  it.  Florence  stood  ar- 
rested on  the  spot,  and  if  he  had  awakened  then,  mast 
have  remained  there. 

There  was  a  cut  upon  his  forehead,  and  they  had  been 
wetting  his  hair,  which  lay  bedabbled  and  entangled  on 
the  pillow.  One  of  his  arms,  resting  outside  the  bed, 
was  bandaged  up,  and  he  was  very  white.  But  it  was 
not  this,  that  after  the  first  quick  glance,  and  first  assur- 
ance of  hiij  sleeping  quietly,  held  Florence  rooted  to 
the  ground.  It  was  something  very  different  from  this, 
and  more  than  this,  that  made  him  look  so  solemn  in  hu/ 
lyeij. 


DOMBEf  AND   SON.  255 

She  luid  never  seen  his  face  in  all  her  life,  but  there 
Lad  been  upon  it  —  or  she  fancied  so  —  some  disturbing 
consciousness  c*"  het.  Slie  had  never  seen  his  face  in  all 
her  life,  but  hope  haa  su..k  within  her,  and  her  timiii 
glance  had  drooped  before  its  stern,  unloving,  and  repel- 
ling harshness.  As  she  looked  uj)on  it  now,  she  saw  il, 
for  the  first  time,  free  from  the  cloud  that  had  darkened 
her  childhood.  Caira,  tranquil  night,  was  reigning  in  its 
stead.  He  might  have  gone  to  sleep,  for  anything  she 
saw  there,  blessing  her. 

Awake,  unkind  father !  Awake  now,  sullen  man ! 
The  time  is  flitting  by ;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an  an- 
gry tread.     Awake ! 

There  was  no  change  upon  his  face ;  and  as  she 
watched  it,  awfully,  its  motionless  repose  recalled  the 
faces  that  were  gone.  So  they  looked,  so  would  he ;  so 
she,  his  weeping  child,  who  should  say  when  !  so  all  the 
world  of  love  and  hatred  and  indifference  around  them  ! 
When  that  time  should  come,  it  would  not  be  the  heavier 
to  him,  for  this  that  she  was  going  to  do ;  and  it  might 
fall  something  lighter  upon  her. 

She  stole  close  to  the  bed,  and  drawing  in  her  breath, 
bent  down,  and  softly  kissed  him  on  the  face,  and  laid  her 
own  for  one  brief  moment  by  its  side,  and  put  the  arm, 
with  which  she  dared  not  touch  him,  round  about  him  on 
Uie  pillow. 

Awake,  doomed  man,  while  she  is  near  !  The  time  is 
flitting  by  ;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an  angry  tread ;  its 
foot  is  in  the  house.     Awake  ! 

In  her  mind,  she  prayed  to  God  to  bless  her  father, 
and  to  soften  him  towards  her,  if  u  might  be  so ;  and  if 
Dot,  to  forgive  him  if  he  was  wrong,  and  pardon  her  thw 
orayer.  which  almost  seemed  impiety.     And  doing  so, 


256  DOMBET  AND  SOW. 

and  looking  back  at  him  with  blinded  eyes,  and  stealini;^ 
timidly  away,  passed  out  of  his  room,  and  crossed  the 
other,  and  was  gone. 

He  may  sleep  on  now.  He  may  sleep  on  while  he 
may.  But  let  him  look  for  that  slight  figure  when  he 
wakes,  and  find  it  near  him  when  the  hour  is  come ! 

Sad  and  grieving  was  the  heart  of  Florence,  as  she 
crept  up-stairs.  The  quiet  house  had  gi-own  more  dis- 
mal since  she  came  down.  The  sleep  she  had  been  look> 
ing  on,  in  the  dead  of  night,  had  the  solemnity  to  her  of 
death  and  life  in  one.  The  secrecy  and  silence  of  her 
own  proceeding  made  the  night  secret,  silent,  and  oppres- 
sive. She  felt  unwilling,  almost  unable,  to  go  on  to  her 
own  chamber  ;  and  turning  into  the  drawing-rooms," 
where  the  clouded  moon  was  shining  through  the  blinds, 
looked  out  into  the  empty  streets. 

The  wind  was  blowing  drearily.  The  lamps  looked 
pale,  and  shook  as  if  they  were  cold.  There  was  a  dis- 
tant glimmer  of  something  that  was  not  quite  darkness, 
rather  than  of  light,  in  the  sky ;  and  foreboding  night 
was  shivering  and  restless,  as  the  dying  are  who  make  a 
troubled  end.  Florence  remembered  how,  as  a  watcher, 
by  a  sick  bed,  she  had  noted  this  bleak  time,  and  felt  its 
influence,  as  if  in  some  hidden  natural  antipathy  to  it; 
and  now  it  was  very,  very  gloomy. 

Her  mama  had  not  come  to  her  room  that  night,  which 
was  one  cause  of  her  having  sat  late  out  of  her  bed.  In 
her  general  uneasiness,  no  less  than  in  her  ardent  long* 
vng  to  have  somebody  to  speak  to,  and  to  break  this  spell 
af  gloom  and  silence,  Florence  directed  her  steps  towards 
Ihe  chamber  where  she  slept. 

The  door  was  not  fastened  within,  and  yielded  smoothly 
U>  her  hesitating  hand.     She  was  surprised   to  find  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  859 

bright  light  burning ;  still  more  surprised,  on  looking  in, 
to  see  that  her  mama,  but  partially  undressed,  was  sit- 
ting near  the  ashes  of  the  fire,  which  had  crumbled  and 
dropped  away.  Her  eyes  were  intently  bent  upon  the 
air ;  and  in  their  light,  and  in  her  face,  and  in  her  form, 
and  in  the  grasp  with  which  she  held  the  elbows  of  her 
chair  as  if  about  to  start  up,  Florence  saw  such  ilerco 
emotion  that  it  terrified  her. 

"  Mama ! "  she  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter  !  " 

Edith  started  ;  looking  at  her  with  such  a  strange 
dread  in  her  face,  that  Florence  was  more  frightened 
than  before. 

"  Mama  I  "  said  Florence,  hurriedly  advancing.  "  Dear 
mama  !  what  is  the  matter  !  " 

"  I  have  not  been  well,"  said  Edith,  shaking,  and  still 
looking  at  her  in  the  same  strange  way.  "  I  have  had 
bad  dreams,  my  love." 

"  And  not  yet  been  to  bed,  mama  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  returned.     "  Half-waking  dreams." 

Her  features  gradually  softened ;  and  suffering  Flor- 
ence to  come  close  to  her,  within  her  embrace,  she  said 
in  a  tender  manner,  "  But  what  does  my  bird  do  here  1 
What  does  my  bird  do  here  ! " 

"  I  have  been  uneasy,  mama,  in  not  seeing  you  to- 
night, and  in  not  knowing  how  papa  was ;  and  I  "  — 

Florence  stopped  there,  and  said  no  more. 

"Is  it  late?"  asked  Edith,  fondly  putting  back  the 
carls  that  mingled  with  her  own  dark  hair,  and  strayed 
upon  her  face. 

"  Very  late.     Near  day." 

"  Near  day !  "  she  repeated  in  surprise. 

"  Dear  mama,  what  have  you  done  to  your  hand  ?  * 
laid  Florence. 

VOL.    lU.  17 


258  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Edith  drew  it  suddenly  away,  and,  for  a  moment, 
looked  at  her  with  the  same  strange  dread  (there  was  a 
sort  of  wild  avoidance  in  it)  as  before  ;  but  she  presently 
said,  "  Nothing,  nothing.  A  blow."  And  then  she  said, 
"  My  Florence  !  "  And  then  her  bosom  heaved,  and  she 
was  weeping  passionately. 

"  Mama !  "  said  Florence.  "  Oh  mama,  what  can  I  do, 
what  should  I  do,  to  make  us  happier  ?  Is  there  any- 
thing ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied. 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  Can  it  never  be  ?  If  I  speak 
now  of  what  is  in  my  thoughts,  in  spite  of  what  we  have 
agreed,"  said  Florence,  "you  will  not  blame  me,  will 
you  ?  " 

"  It  is  useless,"  she  replied,  "  useless.  1  have  told  you, 
dear,  that  I  have  had  bad  dreams.  Nothing  can  change 
th^m,  or  prevent  their  coming  back." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Florence,  gazing  on  hei 
agitated  face,  which  seemed  to  darken  as  she  looked. 

"  I  have  dreamed,"  said  Edith  in  a  low  voice,  "  of  «» 
pride  that  is  all  powerless  for  good,  all  powerful  for  evil ; 
of  a  pride  that  has  been  galled  and  goaded,  through 
many  shameful  years,  and  has.  never  recoiled,  except 
upon  itself;  a  pride  that  has  debased  its  owner  with  the 
consciousness  of  deep  humiliation,  and  never  helped  its 
owner  boldly  to  resent  it  or  avoid  it,  or  to  say,  '  Thu 
Bhall  not  be  ! '  a  pride  that,  rightly  guided,  might  have 
Jed  perhaps  to  better  things,  but  which,  misdirected  and 
perverted,  like  all  else  belonging  to  the  same  possessor, 
has  been  self-contempt,  mere  hardihood  and  ruin." 

She  neither  looked  nor  spoke  to  Florence  now,  bul 
went  on  as  if  she  were  alone. 

"  1  have  dreamed  '  she  said,  "  of  such  indifference  and 


DOM  BEY  AND   SON.  259 

callousness,  arising  from  this*  self-contempt ;  this  wretch^ 
ed,  inefficient,  miserable  pride ;  that  it  has  gone  on  with 
listless  steps  even  to  the  altar,  yielding  to  the  old,  fa- 
miliar, beckoning  finger,  —  oh  mother,  oh  mother!  — 
while  it  spurned  it;  and  willing  to  be  hateful  to  itself  for 
once  and  for  all,  rather  than  to  be  stung  daily  in  some 
Dew  form.     Mean,  poor  thing  !  " 

And  now  with  gathering  and  darkening  emotion,  she 
looked  as  she  had  looked  when  Florence  entered. 

"  And  I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "  that  in  a  first  late 
effort  to  achieve  a  purpose,  it  has  been  trodden  on,  and 
trodden  down  by  a  base  foot,  but  turns  and  looks  upon 
him.  I  have  dreamed  that  it  is  wounded,  hunted,  set 
upon  by  dogs,  but  that  it  stands  at  bay,  and  will  not 
yield ;  no,  that  it  cannot  if  Jit  would  ;  but  that  it  is  urged 
on  to  hate  him,  rise  against  him,  and  defy  him !  " 

Her  clinched  hand  tightened  on  the  trembling  arm  she 
had  in  hers,  and  as  she  looked  down  on  the  alarmed  and 
wondering  fpce,  her  own  subsided.  "  Oh  Florence  !  " 
she  said,  ''  I  think  I  have  been  nearly  mad  to-night ! " 
and  humbled  her  proud  head  upon  her  neck,  and  wept 
again. 

"  Don't  leave  me !  be  near  me !  I  have  no  hope  but 
in  you  ! "     These  words  she  said  a  score  of  times. 

Soon  she  grew  calmer,  and  was  full  of  pity  for  the 
tears  of  Florence,  and  for  her  waking  at  such  untimely 
hours.  And  the  day  now  dawning,  Edith  folded  her  in 
her  arms  and  laid  her  down  upon  her  bed,  and,  not  lying 
down  herself,  sat  by  her,  and  bade  her  try  to  sleep. 

"  For  you  are  weary,  dearest,  and  unhappy,  and  should 
rest." 

"  I  am  indeed  unhappy,  dear  mama,  to-night,^  said 
ITlorence.     "  But  you  are  weary  and  unhappy,  too." 


260  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  Not  when  you  lie  asleep  so  near  rae,  sweet." 
They  kissed  each  other,  and  Florence,  worn  out, 
gradually  fell  into  a  gentle  slumber ;  but  as  her  eyes 
closed  on  the  face  beside  her,  it  was  so  sad  to  think  upon 
the  face  down-stairs,  that  her  hand  drew  closer  to  Edith 
for  some  comfort ;  yet,  even  in  the  act,  it  faltered,  lest  it 
should  be  deserting  him.  So,  in  her  sleep,  she  tried  to 
reconcile  the  two  together,  and  to  show  them  that  she 
loved  tliem  both,  but  could  not  do  it,  and  her  waking 
grief  was  part  of  her  dreams. 

Edith,  sitting  by,  looked  down  at  the  dark  eyelashes 
lying  wet  on  the  flushed  cheeks,  and  looked  with  gentle- 
ness and  pity,  for  she  knew  the  truth.  But  no  sleep 
hung  upon  her  own  eyes.  As  the  day  came  on  she  still 
sat  watching  and  waking,  with  the  placid  hand  in  hers, 
and  sometimes  whispered,  as  she  looked  at  the  hushed 
face,  "Be  near  me,  Florence,  I  have  no  hope  bat  in 
you!" 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  261 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 


A  SEPARATION 


With  tlie  day,  though  not  so  early  as  the  sun,  uprose 
Miss  Susan  Nipper.  There  was  a  heaviness  in  this 
young  maiden's  exceedingly  sharp  black  eyes,  that  abated 
Bomewliat  of  their  sparkling,  and  suggested  —  which  was 
not  their  usual  character  —  the  possibility  of  their  being 
sometimes  shut.  There  was  likewise  a  swollen  look 
about  them,  as  if  they  had  been  crying  overnight.  But 
the  Nipper,  so  far  from  being  cast  down,  was  singularly 
brisk  and  bold,  and  all  her  energies  appeared  to  be 
braced  up  for  some  great  feat.  This  was  noticeable  even 
in  her  dress,  which  was  much  more  tight  and  trim  than 
usual ;  and  in  occasional  twitches  of  her  head  as  she  went 
about  the  house,  wliich  were  mightily  expressive  of 
determination. 

In  a  word,  she  had  formed  a  determination,  and  an 
aspiring  one  :  it  being  nothing  less  than  this  —  to  pene- 
trate to  Mr.  Dombey's  presence,  and  have  speech  of  that 
gentleman  alone.  "  I  have  often  said  I  would,"  she  re- 
marked, in  a  threatening  manner,  to  herself,  that  morn- 
ing, with  many  twitches  of  her  head,  "  and  now  I  will!  " 

Spurring  herself  on  to  the  accomplishment  of  this 
desperate  design,  with  a  sharpness  that  was  peculijir  to 
herself,  Susan  Nipper  haunted  the  hall  and  staircase 
during  the  whole  forenoon,  without  finding  a  favorable 


2G2  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

opportunity  for  the  assault.  Not  at  all  baffled  by  thio 
discomfiture,  which  indeed  had  a  stimulating  effect,  and 
put  her  on  her  mettle,  she  diminished  nothing  of  her 
vigilance ;  and  at  last  discovered,  towards  evening,  ihat 
her  sworn  foe  Mrs.  Pipchin,  under  pretence  of  having 
sat  up  all  night,  was  dozing  in  her  own  room,  and  ihat 
Mr.  Dombey  was  lying  on  his  sofa,  unattended. 

"With  a  twitch  —  not  of  her  head  merely,  this  time, 
but  of  her  whole  self — the  Nipper  went  on  tiploe  to 
Mr.  Dombey's  door,  and  knocked.  "  Come  in ! "  said 
Mr.  Dombey.  Susan  encouraged  herself  with  a  final 
twitch,  and  went  in. 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  eying  the  fire,  gave  an  amazed 
look  at  his  visitor,  and  raised  himself  a  little  on  his  arm. 
Tlie  Nipper  dropped  a  courtesy. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  said 
Susan. 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  lips  as  if  he  were  repeating 
the  words,  but  he  seemed  so  lost  in  astonishment  at  the 
presumption  of  the  young  woman  as  to  be  incapable  of 
giving  them  utterance. 

"  I  have  been  in  your  service,  sir,"  >aid  Susan  Nipper, 
with  her  usual  rapidity,  "  now  twelve  year  a-waiting  on 
Miss  Floy  my  own  young  lady  who  couldn't  speak  plain 
when  I  first  come  here  and  I  was  old  in  this  house  when 
Mrs.  Richards  was  new,  I  may  not  be  Mnethosalem,  bdt 
1  am  not  a  child  in  arras." 

Mr.  Dombey,  raised  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  at  her 
offered  no  comment  on  this  preparatory  statement  of 
facts. 

"  There  never  was  a  dearer  or  a  blesscder  young  lady 
Qian  is  my  young  lady,  sir,"  said  Susan,  "  and  I  ough« 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  263 

to  know  a  great  deal  better  than  some  for  I  have  seon 
her  in  her  grief  and  I  have  seen  her  in  her  joy  (there's 
not  been  much  of  it)  and  I  have  seen  her  with  her  brother 
and  I  have  seen  her  in  her  lonehness  and  some  have 
never  seen  her,  and  I  say  to  some  and  all  —  I  do  !  "  and 
here  the  black-eyed  shook  her  head,  and  slightly  stamped 
her  foot ;  "  that  she's  the  blessedest  and  dearest  angel  is 
Miss  Floy  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life,  the  more 
that  I  was  torn  to  pieces  sir  the  more  I'd  say  it  though  I 
may  not  be  a  Fox's  Martyr." 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  yet  paler  than  his  fall  had  made 
him,  with  indignation  and  astonishment-;  and  kept  his 
eyes  upon  the  speaker  as  if  he  accused  them,  and  his 
ears  too,  of  playing  him  false. 

"  No  one  could  be  anything  but  true  and  faithful  to 
Miss  Floy,  sir,"  pursued  Susan,  "  and  I  take  no  merit 
for  ray  service  of  twelve  year,  for  I  love  her  —•-  yes,  1 
say  to  some  and  all  I  do  !  "  —  and  here  the  black-eyed 
shook  her  head  again,  and  slightly  stamped  her  foot 
again,  and  checked  a  sob  ;  "  but  true  and  faithful  service 
gives  me  right  to  speak  I  hope,  and  speak  I  must  and 
will  now,  right  or  wrong." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  woman  ! "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
glaring  at  her.     "  How  do  you  dare  ? " 

"  What  I  mean,  sir,  is  to  speak  respectful  and  without 
offence,  but  out,  and  how  I  dare  I  know  not  but  I  do  !  " 
Bai'l  Susan.  "  Oh  !  jou  don't  know  ray  young  lady  sir 
you  don't  indeed,  you'd  never  know  so  little  of  her,  if 
you  did." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  fury,  put  his  hand  out  for  the  bell- 
rope  ;  but  there  was  no  bell-rope  on  tliat  side  of  the  fire, 
and  he  could  not  rise  and  cross  to  the  other  without 
assistance.     The  quick  eye  of  the  Nipper  detected  hi* 


164  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

belp'lessness  immediately,  and  now,  as  she  afterwards 
observed,  she  felt  she  had  got  him. 

"  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  is  the  most  de- 
voted and  most  patient  and  most  dutiful  and  beautiful  of 
daughters,  there  a'n't  no  gentleman,  no  sir,  thougli  aa 
great  and  rich  as  all  the  greatest  and  richest  of  England 
put  together,"  but  might  be  proud  of  her  and  would  and 
ought.  If  he  knew  her  value  right,  he'd  rather  lose  his 
greatness  and  his  fortune  piece  by  piece  and  beg  his  way 
in  rags  from  door  to  door,  I  say  to  some  and  all,  he 
would  !  "  cried  Susan  Nipper,  bursting  into  tears,  "  than 
bring  the  sorrow  on  her  tender  heart  that  I  have  seen  it 
suffer  in  this  house  !  " 

"  Woman,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  "  leave  the  room." 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  not  even  if  I  am  to  leave  the 
situation,  sir,"  replied  the  steadfast  Nipper,  "  in  which  I 
have  been  so  many  years  and  seen  so  much  —  aUbough 
1  hope  you'd  never  have  the  heart  to  send  me  from  Miss 
Floy  for  such  a  cause —  will  I  go  now  till  I  have  said 
the  rest,  I  may  not  be  a  Indian  widow  sir  and  I  am  not 
and  I  would  not  so  become  but  if  I  once  made  up  my 
mind  to  burn  myself  alive,  I'd  do  it!  And  I've  made 
my  mind  up  to  go  on." 

Which  was  rendered  no  less  clear  by  the  expression 
of  Susaa  Nipper's  countenance,  than  by  her  words. 

"  Tiiere  a'n't  a  person  in  your  service,  sir,"  pursued 
the  black-eyed,  "  that  has  always  stood  more  in,  awe  of 
you  than  me  and  you  may  think  how  true  it  is  when  I 
make  so  bold  as  say  that  I  have  hundreds  and  hundreds 
dt  times  thought  of  speaking  to  you  and  never  been  able 
to  make  my  mind  up  to  it  till  last  night,  but  last  night 
iecided  of  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  made  anothei 


DOMBEY   AND   SOW.  265 

grasp  at  the  bell-rope  that  was  not  there,  and,  in  its 
absence,  pulled  his  hair  rather  than  nothing. 

"I  have  seen,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "Miss  Floy  strive 
and  strive  wlien  nothing  but  a  child  so  sweet  and  patient 
that  the  best  of  women  might  have  copied  from  her,  I've 
Been  her  sitting  nights  together  half  the  night  through  to 
help  her  delicate  brother  with  his  learning,  I've  seen  her 
helping  him  and  watching  him  at  other  times  —  some 
well  know  when  —  I've  seen  her,  with  no  encouragement 
and  no  help,  grow  up  to  be  a  lady,  thank  God !  that  is 
the  grace  and  pride  of  every  company  she  goes  in,  and 
I've  always  seen  her  cruelly  neglected  and  keenly  feel- 
ing of  it —  I  say  to  some  and  all,  I  have  !  —  and  never 
said  one  word,  but  ordering  one's  self  lowly  and  rever- 
ently towards  one's  betters,  is  not  to  be  a  worshipper  of 
graven  images,  and  I  will  and  must  speak  ! " 

"  Is  there  anybody  there  !  "  cried  Mr.  Dorabey,  call- 
ing out.  "  Where  are  the  men  ?  where  are  the  women  ! 
Is  there  no  one  there ! " 

"  I  left  my  dear  young  lady  out  of  bed  late  last  night," 
said  Susan,  nothing  checked,  "  and  I  knew  why,  for  you 
was  ill  sir  and  she  didn't  know  how  ill  and  that  was 
enough  to  make  her  wretched  as  I  saw  it  did.  —  I  may 
not  be  a  peacock  ;  but  I  have  ray  eyes  —  ariti  I  sat  up 
a  little  in  my  own  room,  thinking  she  might  be  lonesome 
and  might  want  me,  and  I  saw  her  steal  down-stairs  and 
come  to  this  door  as  if  it  was  a  guilty  thing  to  look  at 
her  own  pa,  and  then  steal  back  again  and  go  into  them 
lonely  drawing-rooms,  a-crying  so,  that  I  could  hardly 
hear  to  hear  it.  I  cannot  bear  to  bear  it,"  sj.id  Susan 
Nipper,  wiping  her  black  eyes,  and  fixing  them  un- 
dauntedly on  Mr.  Doinbey's  infuriated  face.  '"It's  not 
ihe  first   time  I  have  heard  it,  not  by  many  and  raanj 


266  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

R  time  you  don't  know  your  own  daughter,  sir,  you 
don't  know  what  you're  doing,  sir,  I  say  to  some  and 
all,"  cried  Susan  Nipper,  in  a  final  burst,  "  that  it's  a 
einful  shame  !  " 

"  Why,  hoity,  toity  !  "  cried  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  as  the  black  bombazine  garments  of  that  fair 
Peruvian  Miner  swept  into  the  room.  "  What's  this, 
indeed ! " 

Susan  favored  Mrs.  Pipchin  with  a  look  she  had 
invented  expressly  for  her  when  they  first  became 
acquainted,  and  resigned  the  reply  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  What's  this ! "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey  almost  foam- 
ing. "  What's  this,  madam  ?  You  who  are  at  the 
head  of  this  household,  and  t)ound  to  keep  it  in  or- 
der, have  reason  to  inquire.  Do  you  know  this 
woman  ?  " 

"  I  know  very  little  good  of  her,  sir,"  croaked  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  "  How  dare  you  come  here,  you  hussy  ?  Go 
along  with  you  !  " 

But  the  inflexible  Nipper,  merely  honoring  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin with  another  look,  remained. 

"  Do  you  call  it  managing  this  establishment,  madam," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  leave  a  person  like  this  at  lib- 
erty to  coftie  and  talk  to  me !  A  gentleman  —  in  hi? 
own  house  —  in  his  own  room  —  assailed  with  the  im- 
pertinences of  women  servants  !  " 

"  Well  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  vengeance  in 
her  hard  gray  eye,  "I  exceedingly  deplore  it:  nothing 
eaa  be  more  irregular ;  nothing  can  be  more  out  of  all 
Dounds  and  reason  ;  but  I  regret  to  say,  sir,  that  this 
young  woman  is  quite  beyond  control.  She  has  been 
spoiled  by  Miss  Dombey,  and  is  amenable  to  nobody. 
You  know  you're  not,"  said   Mrs.  Pipchin,  sharply,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  261 

shaking  her  head  at  Susan  Nipper.  "  For  shame,  you 
hussy  !     Go  along  with  you  !  " 

"  If  you  find  people  in  my  service  who  are  not  to  be 
controlled,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey,  turning 
back  towards  the  fire,  "  you  know  what  to  do  with  them» 
I  presume.  You  know  what  you  are  here  fijr  ?  Take 
her  away !  " 

•*  Sir,  I  know  what  to  do,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
"  and  of  course  shall  do  it.  Susan  Nipper,"  snapping 
her  up  particularly  short,  "  a  month's  warning  from  this 
hour." 

"  Oh  indeed  !  "  cried  Susan,  loftily. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  don't  smile  at 
me,  you  minx,  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why !  Go  along 
with  you  this  minute  !  " 

"  I  intend  to  go  this  minute,  you  may  rely  upon  it," 
said  the  voluble  Nipper.  "  I  have  been  in  this  house 
waiting  on  my  young  lady  a  dozen  year  and  I  won't  stop 
in  it  one  hour  under  notice  from  a  person  owning  to  the 
name  of  Pipchin,  trust  me,  Mrs.  P." 

"  A  good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish  ! "  said  that  wrath- 
ful old  lady.  "  Get  along  with  you,  or  I'll  have  you  car- 
ried out ! " 

"My  comfort  is,"  said  Susan,  looking  back  at  Mr. 
Dombey,  "that  I  have  told  a  piece  of  truth  this  day 
which  ought  to  have  been  told  long  before  and  can't 
be  told  too  often  or  too  plain  and  that  no  amount  of 
Pipchinses  —  I  hope  the  number  of  'em  mayn't  be 
great"  (here  Mrs.  Pipchin  uttered  a  very  sharp  "Go 
along  with  you  ! "  and  Miss  Nipper  repeated  the  look) 
"  can  unsay  what  I  have  said,  though  they  gave  a  whole 
year  full  of  warnings  beginning  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
forenoon    and   never    leaving    off  till    twelve  at  night 


268  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

Bod   died   of  the    exhaustion  which    would   be  a  Jubi- 
lee!" 

With  these  words,  Miss  Nipper  preceded  her  foe  oul 
of  the  room  ;  and  walking  up-stairs  to  her  own  apart- 
ment in  great  state,  to  the  choking  exasperation  of  the 
ireful  Pipchin,  sat  down  among  her  boxes  and  began 
to  cry.    . 

From  this  soft  mood  she  was  soon  aroused,  with  a 
very  wholesome  and  refreshing  effect,  by  the  voice  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin  outside  the  door. 

"  Does  that  bold-faced  slut,"  said  the  fell  Pipchin, 
•*  intend  to  take  her  warning,  or  does  she  not  ? " 

Miss  Nipper  replied  from  within  that  the  person 
described  did  not  inhabit  that  part  of  the  house,  but  that 
her  name  was  Pipchin,  and  she  was  to  be  found  in  the 
house-keeper's  room. 

"  You  saucy  baggage ! "  retorted  Mi's.  Pipchin,  rat- 
tling at  the  handle  of  the  door.  "  Gro  along  with  you 
this  minute.  Pack  up  your  things  directly  !  How  dare 
you  talk  in  this  way  to  a  gentlewoman  who  has  seen  bet- 
ter days  ?" 

To  which  Miss  Nipper  rejoined  from  her  castle,  that 
ehe  pitied  the  better  days  that  had  seen  Mrs.  Pipchin ; 
and  that  for  her  part  she  considered  the  worst  days  in 
the  year  to  be  about  that  lady's  mark,  except  that  they 
wore  much  too  good  for  her. 

^  But  you  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  make  a  noise 
at  my  door,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  nor  to  contaminate 
the  key-hole  with  your  eye,  I'm  packing  up  and  going 
you  uKiy  take  your  affidavit." 

The  Dowager  expressed  her  lively  satisfaction  at  this 
intelligence,  and  with  some  general  opinions  upon  young 
huskies  as  a  race,  and  especially  upon  their  demerits  aftei 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2^ 

being  sjx)iled  bji  Miss  Dorabey,  withdrew  to  prepare  tha 
Nipper's  wages.  Susan  then  bestirred  herself  to  get 
her  trunks  in  order,  that  she  might  take  an  immediate 
and  dignified  departure  ;  sobbing  beai'tily  all  the  time, 
as  she  thought  of  Florence. 

The  object  of  her  regret  was  not  long  in  coming  to 
her,  for  the  news  soon  spread  over  the  house  that  Susan 
Nipper  had  had  a  disturbance  with  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and 
tix&t  they  had  both  appealed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that 
there  had  been  an  unprecedented  piece  of  work  in  Mr. 
Dombey's  room,  and  that  Susan  was  going.  The  hitter 
part  of  this  confused  rumor,  Florence  found  to  be  so 
correct,  that  Susan  had  locked  the  last  trunk  and  was 
sitting  upon  it  with  her  bonnet  on,  when  she  came  into 
her  room. 

"  Susan  ! "  cried  .  Florence.  "  Going  to  leave  me  ! 
You  ! " 

"Oh  for  goodness  gracious  sake.  Miss  Floy,"  said 
Susan  sobbing,  "  don't  speak  a  word  to  me  or  I  shall 
demean  myself  before  them  Pi-i-pchinses,  and  I  wouldn't 
liave  'em  see  me  cry  Miss  Floy  for  worlds ! " 

"  Susan !  "  said  Florence.  *'  My  dear  girl,  my  old 
friend !  What  shall  I  do  without  you !  Can  you  bear 
to  go  away  so  ?  " 

"  No-n-o-o,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy,  I  can't  indeed,** 
Bobbed  Susan.  "  But  it  can't  be  helped,  I've  done  my 
duty,  miss,  I  have  indeed.  It's  no  fault  of  mine.  I  am 
quite  resi-ign3d.  I  couldn't  stay  my  month  or  I  could 
never  leave  you  then  my  darling  and  I  must  at  last  as 
well  as  at  first,  don't  speak  to  me  Miss  Floy,  for  though 
I'm  pretty  firm  I'm  not  a  marble  door-post,  my  own  dear.' 

"  "What  is  it !  Why  is  it  ?  "  said  Florence.  "  Won't 
fou  tell  me  ?  "     For  Susan  was  shaking  her  head. 


no  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  No-n-DO,  my  darling,"  returned  Susan.  "  Don't  ask 
me,  for  I  mustn't,  and  whatever  you  do  don't  put  in  a 
word  for  me  to  stop,  for  it  couldn't  be  and  you'd  only 
wrong  yourself,  and  as  God  bless  you  my  own  pre- 
cious and  forgive  me  any  harm  I  have  done,  or  any 
temper  I  have  showed  in  all  these  many  years  ! " 

"With  which  entreaty,  very  heartily  delivered,  Susao 
hugged  her  mistress  in  her  arms. 

"  My  darling  there's  a  many  that  may  come  to  serve 
jrou  and  be  glad  to  serve  you  and  who'll  serve  you 
well  and  true,"  said  Susan,  "  but  there  can't  be  one 
who'll  serve  you  so  affectionate  as  me  or  love  you  half 
as  dearly,  that's  my  comfort.  Go-ood-by,  sweet  Mis3 
Floy ! " 

"  Where  will  you  go,  Susan  ? "  asked  her  weeping 
mistress. 

"  I've  got  a  brother  down  in  the  country  miss  —  a 
farmer  in  Essex,"  said  the  heart-broken  Nipper,  "  that 
keeps  ever  so  many  co-o-ows  and  pigs  and  I  shall  go 
down  there  by  the  coach  and  sto-op  with  him,  and  don't 
mind  me,  for  I've  got  money  in  the  Savings'  Banks  my 
dear,  and  needn't  take  another  service  just  yet,  which 
I  couldn't,  couldn't,  couldn't  do,  my  heart's  own  mis- 
tress ! "  Susan  finished  with  a  burst  of  sorrow,  which 
was  opportunely  broken  by  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipchin 
talking  down-stairs ;  on  hearing  which,  she  di'ied  her 
ted  and  swollen  eyes,  and  made  a  melancholy  feint  of 
calling  jauntily  to  Mr.  Towlinson  to  fetch  a  cab  and 
oarry  down  her  boxes. 

Florence,  pale  and  hurried  and  disti'essed,  but  with- 
held from  useless  interference  even  here,  by  her  dread 
of  causing  any  new  division  between  her  father  and  hij 
wife  (whose  stern,  indignant  face  had  been  a  warning 


DOMBEY  AND  SJN.  271 

X)  her  a  few  moments  since),  and  by  her  apprehension 
of  being  in  some  way  unconsciously  connected  already 
with  the  dismissal  of  her  old  servant  and  friend,  fol- 
lowed, weeping,  down-stairs  to  Edith's  dressing-rooin, 
whither  Susan  betook  herself  to  make  her  parting  cour- 
f^sy. 

'  "  Now,  here's  the  cab,  and  here's  the  boxes,  ge  t  along 
^fith  you,  do  !  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presenting  herself  at 
the  same  moment.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  but  Mr. 
Dombey's  orders  are  imperative." 

Edith,  sitting  under  the  hands  of  her  maid  —  she  was 
going  out  to  dinner  —  preserved  her  haughty  face,  and 
took  not  the  least  notice. 

"  There's  your  money,"  said  ^Irs.  Pipchin,  who,  in 
pursuance  of  her  system,  and  in  recollection  of  the 
Mines,  was  accustomed  to  rout  the  servants  about,  as 
she  had  routed  her  young  Brighton  boai'dcrs ;  to  the 
everlasting  acidulation  of  Master  Bithei'stone,  "  and  the 
sooner  this  house  sees  your  back  the  better." 

Susan  had  no  spirits  even  for  the  look  that  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Pipchin  by  right ;  so  she  dropped  her  courtesy 
to  Mrs.  Dombey  (who  inclined  her  head  without  one 
word,  and  whose  eye  avoided  every  one  but  Florence), 
and  gave  one  last  parting  hug  to  her  young  mistress, 
and  received  her  parting  embrace  in  return.  Pool 
Susan's  face  at  this  crisis,  in  the  intensity  of  her  feel- 
ings and  the  determined  suffocation  of  her  sobs,  lest  one 
fhould  become  audible  and  be  a  triumph  to  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
presented  a  series  of  the  most  extraordinary  physiog- 
aomical  phenomena  ever  witnessed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  raiss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Towlinsou, 
Wtside  the  door  with  the  boxes,  addressing  Florence, 
*but  Mr.   Toots  is   in  the  dining-room,  and   send?   hii 


272  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

compliments,  and  begs  to  kuow  how  Diogenes  and  mRS. 
ter  is." 

Quick  as  thought,  Florence  glided  out  and  hastened 
down-stairs,  where  Mi-.  Toots,  in  the  most  splendid  vetit- 
ments,  was  breathing  very  hard  with  doubt  and  agitatioa 
nn  the  subject  of  her  coming. 

"Oh,  how  de  do,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  «  God 
bless  my  soul !  " 

This  last  ejaculation  was  occasioned  by  Mr.  Toots'a 
deep  concern  at  the  distress  he  saw  in  Florence's  face : 
which  caused  him  to  stop  short  in  a  fit  of  chuckles,  and 
become  an  image  of  despair. 

"  Dear  iMr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,  "  you  are  so  friendly 
to  me,  and  so  honest,  diat  I  am  sure  I  may  ask  a  favor 
of  you." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  if  you'll  only 
name  one,  you'll  —  you'll  give  me  an  appetite.  To 
which,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  some  sentiment,  "I  have 
long  been  a  stranger." 

"  Susan,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  the  oldest  friend 
I  have,"  said  Florence,  "  is  about  to  leave  here  suddenly, 
and  quite  alone,  poor  girl.  She  is  going  home,  a  liitle 
way  into  the  country.  Might  I  ask  you  to 'take  care  of 
ber  until  she  is  in  the  coach  ? " 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  you  really  do 
me  an  honor  and  a  kindness.  This  proof  of  your  confi- 
dence, after  the  manner  in  which  1  was  Beast  enough  to 
conduct  myself  at  Brighton  " — 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence,  hurriedly  —  "no  —  don't  thick 
of  that.  Then  would  you  have  the  kindness  to  —  to 
»o  ?  and  to  be  ready  to  meet  her  when  she  comes  out  ? 
Tliank  you  a  thousand  times !  You  ease  my  mind  so 
OTiUcJi.     She  doesn't  seem  so  desolate.     You  cannot  think 


DOMBIY  AND  SON.  273 

bow  grateful  I  feel  to  you,  or  wFiat  a  good  friend  I  am 
Bure  you  are !"  And  Florence  in  her  earnestness  thanked 
him  again  and  again  ;  and  Mr.  Toots  in  his  earnestness 
hurried  away  —  but  backwards,  that  he  might  lose  no 
glimpse  of  her. 

Florence  had  not  the  courage  to  go  out,  when  she  saw 
poor  Susan  in  tho  hall,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  driving  hoi 
forth,  and  Diogenes  jumping  about  her,  and  terrifying 
Mrs.  Pipchin  to  the  last  degree  by  making  snaps  at  her 
bombazine  skirts,  and  howling  with  anguish  at  the  sound 
of  her  voice  —  for  the  good  duenna  was  the  dearest  and 
most  cherished  aversion  of  his  breast.  But  ?he  saw 
Susan  shake  hands  with  the  servants  all  round,  and  turn 
once  to  look  at  her  old  home ;  and  she  saw  Diogenes 
bound  out  after  the  cab,  and  want  to  follow  it,  and  tes- 
tify an  impossibility  of  conviction  that  he  had  no  longer 
any  property  in  the  fare  ;  and  the  door  was  shut,  and 
the  hurry  over,  and  her  tears  flowed  fast  for  the  loss  of 
an  old  friend,  whom  no  one  could  replace.  No  one.  No 
one. 

Mr.  Toots,  like  the  leal  and  trusty  soul  he  was,  stopped 
the  cabriolet  in  a  twinkling,  and  told  Susan  Nipper  of 
his  commission,  at  which  she  cried  more  than  before. 

"  Upon  my  soul  and  body  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking 
his  seat  beside  her,  "I  feel  for  you.  Upon  my  word 
and  honor  I  think  you  can  hardly  know  your  own  feel- 
ings better  than  I  imagine  them.  1  can  conceive  nothing 
more  dreadful  than  to  have  to  leave  Miss  Dombey." 

Susan  abandoned  herself  to  her  grief  now,  and  it  really 
^us  touching  to  see  her. 

"  I  say,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  «  now,  don't !  at  least  I  mean 
oow  do,  you  know  !  " 

"  Do  what,  Mr.  Toots  ?  "  cried  Susan. 
vol..  III.  18 


274  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

"  Why,  come  home  to  my  place,  and  hare  '^ome  diiinei 
before  you  start,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  My  cook's  a  most 
respectable  woman  —  one  of  the  most  motherly  people  1 
ever  saw  —  and  she'll  be  delighted  to  make  you  comfort- 
able. Her  son,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  as  an  additional  rec- 
ommendation, "  was  educated  in  the  Blue-coat  School, 
and  blown  up  in  a  powder-mill." 

Susan  accepting  this  kind  offer,  Mr.  Toots  conducted 
her  to  his  dwelling,  where  they  were  received  by  the 
matron  in  question  who  fully  justified  his  character  of 
her,  and  by  the  Chicken  who  at  first  supposed,  on  see- 
mg  a  lady  in  the  vehicle,  that  Mr.  Dombey  had  been 
doubled  up,  agreeably  to  his  old  recommendation,  and 
Miss  Dombey  abducted.  This  gentleman  awakened  in 
Miss  Nipper  some  considerable  astonishment ;  for,  hav- 
ing been  defeated  by  the  Larkey  boy,  his  visage  was  ia 
a  state  of  such  great  dilapidation,  as  to  be  hardly  pr<-- 
sentable  in  society  with  comfort  to  the  beholders.  The 
Chicken  himself  attributed  this  punishment  to  his  hav- 
ing had  the  misfortune  to  get  into  Chancery  early  in  the 
proceedings,  when  he  was  severely  fibbed  by  the  Larkey 
one,  and  heavily  grassed.  But  it  appeared  from  the 
published  records  of  that  great  contest  that  the  Larkey 
boy  had  had  it  all  his  own  way  from  the  beginning,  and 
that  the  Chicken  had  been  tapped,  and  bunged,  and  had 
received  pepper,  and  had  been  made  groggy,  and  had 
come  up  piping,  and  had  endured  a  complication  cf  aim 
ilar  strange  inconveniences,  until  he  had  been  gon<j  iiitc 
^d  finished. 

After  a  good  repast,  and  much  hospitality,  Susan  set 
ojt  for  the  coach-office  in  another  cabriolet,  with  Mr. 
Toots  inside,  as  before,  and  the  Chicken  on  the  box, 
who,  whatever  distinction  he  conferred  on  the  little  party 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  278 

by  the  moral  waight  and  heroism  of  his  character,  was 
scarcely  ornamental  to  it,  physically  speaking,  on  account 
of  his  plasters ;  which  were  numerous.  But  the  Chicken 
had  registered  a  vow,  in  secret,  that  he  would  never 
leave  Mr.  Toots  (who  was  secretly  pining  to  get  rid  of 
him),  for  any  less  consideration  than  the  good-will  and 
fixtures  of  a  public-house ;  and  being  ambitious  to  go 
into  that  line  and  drink  himself  to  death  as  soon  as 
possible,  he  felt  it  his  cue  to  make  his  company  un- 
acceptable. 

The  night-coach  by  which  Susan  was  to  go,  was  on 
the  point  of  departure.  Mr.  Toots  having  put  her  in- 
side, lingered  by  the  window,  irresolutely,  until  the 
driver  was  about  to  mount ;  when,  standing  on  tiie  step, 
and  putting  in  a  face  that  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  was 
anxious  and  confused,  he  said  abruptly  : 

*'  I  say,  Susan  !  Miss  Dorabey,  you  know  "  — 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could  —  you  know  —  eh  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Susan,  "  but  I 
don't,  hear  you." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could  be  brought,  you  know,— 
not  exactly  at  once,  but  in  time  —  in  a  long  time  — 
to  —  to  love  me,  you  know  1  There !  "  said  poor  Mr. 
loots. 

"  Oh  dear  no ! "  returned  Susan,  shaking  her  bead. 
"  I  should  say  never.     Ne — ver  !  " 

"  Thank'ee  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  It's  of  no  conae- 
^aence.    Good-night.    It's  of  no  consequence,  thank'ee ' '' 


276  DOMBEY  AND  SOll. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 


THE   TRUSTY   AGENT. 


Edith  went  out  alone  that  day,  and  returned  home 
early.  It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  ten  o'clock, 
when  her  carriage  rolled  along  the  street  in  which  she 
lived. 

There  was  the  same  enforced  composure  on  her  face, 
that  there  had  been  when  she  was  dressing;  and  the 
wreath  upon  her  head  encircled  the  same  cold  and 
steady  brow.  But  it  would  have  been  better  to  have 
seen  its  leaves  and  flowers  reft  into  fragments  by  her 
passionate  hand,  or  rendered  shapeless  by  the  fitful 
searches  of  a  throbbing  and  bewildered  brain  for  any 
resting-place,  than  adorning  such  tranquillity.  So  obdu- 
rate, so  unapproachable,  so  unrelenting,  one  would  have 
thought  that  nothing  could  soften  such  a  woman's  nature, 
and  that  everything  in  life  had  hardened  it. 

Arrived  at  her  own  door,  she  was  alighting,  when 
tonne  one  joraing  quietly  from  the  hall,  and  standing 
bareheaded,  offered  her  his  arm.  The  servant  being 
thrust  aside,  she  had  no  choice  but  to  touch  it ;  and  she 
then  knew  whose  arm  it  was. 

"  How  is  your  patient,  sir  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  curled 
Up. 

"  He  is  better,"  returned  Carker.  "  He  is  doing  very 
well.     I  have  left  him  for  the  night." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  277 

She  bent  her  head,  and  was  passing  up  tl\e  staircase, 
i?hen  he  followed  and  said,  speaking  at  the  bottoin  : 

"  Madam  !  May  I  beg  the  favor  of  a  minute's  au- 
dience ?  " 

She  stopped  and  turned  her  eyes  back.  "  It  is  an  uiv 
beasoiiable  time,  sir,  and  I  am  fatigued.  Is  ycur  busi- 
ness urgent  ?  " 

''It  is  very  urgent,"  returned  Carker.  "As  I  am  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  met  you,  let  me  press  my  petition.' 

She  looked  down  for  a  moment  at  his  glistening 
mouth;  and  he  looked  up  at  her,  standing  above  him 
in  her  stately  dress,  and  thought,  again,  how  beautiful 
she  was. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  she  asked  the  servant, 
aloud. 

"  In  the  morning  room,  ma'am." 

"  Show  the  way  there  !  "  Turning  her  eyes  again  on 
the  attentive  gentleman  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and 
informing  him  with  a  slight  motion  of  her  head,  that  he 
was  at  liberty  to  follow,  she  passed  on. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  madam  !  Mrs.  Dombey  !  "  cried 
the  soft  and  nimble  Carker,  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 
"  May  I  be  permitted  to  entreat  that  Miss  Dombey  in 
not  present  ?  " 

She  confronted  him,  with  a  quick  look,  but  with  the 
lame  self-possession  and  steadiness. 

••  I  would  spare  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Carker,  in  a  low 
vaice,  "  the  knowledge  of  what  I  have  to  say.  At  least, 
\nadam,  I  would  leave  it  to  you  to  decide  whether  she 
Bhall  know  of  it  or  not.  I  owe  that  to  you.  It  is  my 
Dounden  duty  to  you.  After  bur  former  interview,  it 
ivould  be  monstrous  in  me  if  I  did  otherwise." 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and  tarn 


278  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ing  to  the  servant,  said,  "  some  other  room."  He  led 
the  way  to  a  drawing-room,  which  he  speedily  lighted 
up  and  then  left  them.  While  he  remained,  not  a  woid 
was  spoken.  Edith  enthroned  herself  upon  a  couch  hj 
the  fire  ;  and  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and 
his  eyes  bent  upon  the  carpet,  stood  before  her,  at  soma 
little  distance. 

"  Before  I  hear  you,  sir,"  said  Edith,  when  the  door 
was  closed,  "  I  wish  you  to  hear  me." 

"To  be  addressed  by  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  returned, 
"  even  in  accents  of  unmerited  reproach,  is  an  honor  I 
BO  greatly  esteem,  that  although  I  were  not  her  servant 
in  all  things,  I  should  defer  to  such  a  wish,  most 
readily." 

"  If  you  are  charged  by  the  man  whom  you  have  just 
now  left,  sir;"  Mr.  Carker  raised  his  eyes,  as  if  he 
were  going  to  counterfeit  surprise,  but  she  met  them, 
and  stopped  him,  if  such  were  his  intention ;  "  with  any 
message  to  me,  do  not  attempt  to  deliver  it,  for  I  will  not 
receive  it.  I  need  scarcely  ask  you  if  you  are  come  on 
such  an  errand.     I  have  expected  you  some  time." 

"  It  is  my  misfortune,"  he  replied,  "  to  be  here,  wholly 
against  my  will,  for  such  a  purpose.  Allow  me  to  say 
that  I  am  here  for  two  purposes.     That  is  one." 

"  That  one,  sir,"  she  returned,  "  is  ended.  Or,  if  you 
return  to  it "  — 

"  Can  Mrs.  Dombey  believe,"  said  Carker,  coming 
nearer,  "  that  I  would  return  to  it  in  the  face  of  her  pro- 
hibition ?  Is  it  possible  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  having  no 
'egard  to  my  unfortunate  position,  is  so  determined  to 
wnsider  me  inseparable  from  my  instructor  as  to  do  me 
great  and  wilful  injustice  ?  " 

*'  Sir,"  returned  Edith,  bending   her   dark  gaze  full 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  279 

npon  him,  and  speaking  with  a  rising  pasjion  that  in« 
flated  hei"  proud  nostril  and  her  swelling  neck,  and 
Btirred  the  delicate  white  down  upon  a  robe  she  wore, 
thrown  loosely  over  shoulders  that  could  bear  its  snowy 
neigliborhood.  "  Why  do  you  present  yourself  to  me, 
as  you  have  done,  and  speak  to  me  of  love  and  duty  to 
my  husband,  and  pretend  to  think  that  I  am  happily 
married,  and  that  I  honor  him  ?  How  dare  you  venture 
so  to  affront  me,  when  you  know  —  7  do  not  know  bet- 
ter, sir  :  I  have  seen  it  in  your  every  glance,  and  heard 
it  in  your  every  word  —  that  in  place  of  affection  be- 
tween us  there  is  aversion  and  contempt,  and  that  I 
despise  him  hardly  less  than  I  despise  myself  for  being 
his  !  Injustice  !  If  I  had  done  justice  to  the  torment 
you  have  made  me  feel,  and  to  my  sense  of  the  insult 
you  have  put  upon  me,  I  should  have  slain  you  ! " 

She  had  asked  him  why  he  did  this.  Had  she  not 
been  blinded  by  her  pride  and  wrath,  and  self-humilia- 
tion, —  which  she  was,  fiercely  as  she  bent  her  gaze 
upon  him,  —  she  would  have  seen  the  answer  in  his 
face.     To  bring  her  to  this  declaration. 

She  saw  it  not,  and  cared  not  whether  it  was  there  or 
no.  She  saw  only  the  indignities  and  struggles  she  had 
undergone,  and  had  to  undergo,  and  was  writhing  under 
then.  As  she  sat  looking  fixedly  at  them,  rather  than  at 
him,  she  plucked  the  feathers  from  a  pinion  of  some  rare 
and  beautiful  bird,  which  hung  from  her  wrist  by  a 
golden  thread,  to  serve  her  as  a  fan,  and  rained  them  on 
the  ground. 

He  did  not  shrink  beneath  her  gaze,  but  stood,  until 
Buch  outward  signs  of  her  anger  as  had  escaped  her  con- 
roi  subsided,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  his  suf- 
ficient  reply  in  reserve  and  would  presently  deliver  it 


280  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

And  lift  then  spoke,  looking  straight  into  her  kindling 
eyes- 

*'  Miidam,"  he  said,  "  I  know,  and  knew  before  to-day 
that  I  have  found  no  favor  with  you  ;  and  I  knew  wl»y. 
Yes.  I  knew  why.  You  have  spoken  so  openly  to  me; 
I  am  so  relieved  by  the  possession  of  your  confidence"— 

"  Confidence  ! "  she  repeated,  with  disdain. 

He  passed  it  over. 

—  "  that  I  will  make  no  pretence  of  concealment.  I 
did  see  from  the  first,  that  there  was  no  affection  on 
your  part,  for  Mr.  Dombey  —  how  could  it  pos^-ibly  exist 
between  such  different  subjects  1  And  I  have  seen,  since, 
that  stronger  feelings  than  indifference  have  been  en- 
gendered in  your  breast  —  how  could  that  possibly  be 
otherwise,  either,  circumstanced  as  you  have  been.  But 
was  it  for  me  to  presume  to  avow  this  knowledge  to  you 
in  so  many  words  ?  " 

"  Was  it  for  you,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  to  feign  that  other 
belief,  and  audaciously  to  thrust  it  on  me  day  by  day  ?  " 

"  Madam,  it  was,"  he  eagerly  retorted.  "  If  I  had 
done  less,  if  I  had  done  anything  but  that,  I  should  not 
be  speaking  to  you  thus ;  and  I  foresaw  —  who  could 
better  foresee,  for  who  has  had  greater  experience  of 
Mr.  Dombey  than  myself?  —  that  unless  your  character 
should  prove  to  be  as  yielding  and  obedient  as  that  of 
bis  first  submissive  lady,  which  I  did  not  believe  "  — 

A  haughty  smile  gave  him  reason  to  observe  that  ha 
might  repeat  this. 

"  I  say,  which  I  did  not  believe,  —  the  time  was  likely 
to  come,  when  such  an  understanding  as  we  have  no^ 
M rived  at,  would  be  serviceable." 

"  Serviceable  to  whom,  sir  ? "  she  demanded  sox)ra 
fuUy. 


I>OMBEY  AND   SON.  281 

"  To  you.  1  will  not  add  lo  myself,  as  warning  me 
to  refrain  even  from  that  limited  commendation  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  which  I  can  honestly  indulge,  in  order  that 
I  may  not  have  the  misfortune  of  saying  anything  dis- 
tasteful to  one  whose  aversion  and  contempt,"  with  great 
expression,  "  are  so  keen." 

"  It  is  honest  in  you,  sir,"  said  Edith,  "  to  confess  t 
your  '  limited  commendation,'  and  to  speak  in  that  tone 
of  disparagement,  even  of  him :  being  his  chief  counsel- 
lor and  flatterer !  " 

"Counsellor,  —  yes,"  said  Carker.  "Flatterer — no. 
A  little  reservation  I  fear  I  must  confess  to.  But  our 
interest  and  convenience  commonly  oblige  many  of  us  to 
make  professions  that  we  cannot  feel.  We  have  part- 
nerships of  interest  and  convenience,  friendships  of  inter- 
est and  convenience,  dealings  of  interest  and  convenience, 
marriages  of  interest  and  convenience,  every  day." 

She  bit  her  blood-red  lip  ;  but  without  wavering  in 
the  dark,  stern  watch  she  kept  upon  him. 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  sitting  down  in  a  chair 
that  was  near  her,  with  an  air  of  the  most  profound  and 
most  considerate  respect,  "  why  should  I  hesitate  now, 
being  altogether  devoted  to  your  service,  to  speak  plainly ! 
It  was  natural  that  a  lady  endowed  as  you  are,  should 
think  it  feasible  to  change  her  husband's  character  in 
uome  respects,  and  mould  him  to  a  bet';er  form." 

"  It  was  not  natural  to  me,  sir,"  she  rejoined.  "  I  had 
aever  any  expectation  or  intention  of  that  kind." 

The  proud  undaunted  face  showed  him  it  was  resolute 
to  wear  no  mask  he  offered,  but  was  set  upon  a  reckless 
disclosure  of  itself,  indifferent  to  any  aspect  in  which  il 
wight  oresent  itself  to  such  as  he. 

"  At    least   it   was   natural,"  he   resumed,  "  that  yoa 


282  DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

should  deem  it  quite  possible  to  live  with  Mr.  Dombey 
as  his  wife,  at  once  without  submitting  to  him,  and  with- 
out coming  into  such  violent  collision  with  him.  But, 
madam,  you  did  not  know  Mr.  Dombey  (as  you  have 
Bince  ascertained),  when  you  thought  that.  You  did  not 
know  how  exacting  and  how  proud  he  is,  or  how  he  is,  if 
I  may  say  so,  the  slave  of  his  own  greatness,  and  goea 
yoked  to  his  own  triumphal  car  like  a  beast  of  burden, 
with  no  idea  on  earth  but  that  it  is  behind  him  and  is  to 
be  drawn  on,  over  everything  and  through  everything." 

His  teeth  gleamed  through  his  malicious  relish  of  this 
conceit,  as  he  went  on  talking : 

"  Mr.  Dombey  is  really  capable  of  no  more  true  con- 
sideration for  you,  madam,  than  for  me.  The  comparison 
is  an  extreme  one ;  I  intend  it  to  be  so ;  but  quite  just 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  asked  me 
—  I  had  it  from  his  own  lips  yesterday  morning  —  to  be 
his  go-between  to  you,  because  he  knows  I  am  not  agree- 
able to  you,  and  because  he  intends  that  I  shall  be  a 
punishment  for  your  contumacy ;  and  besides  that,  be- 
cause he  really  does  consider,  that  I,  his  paid  servant, 
am  an  ambassador  whom  it  is  derogatory  to  the  dignity 
— -  not  of  the  lady  to  whom  I  have  the  happiness  of 
speaking  ;  she  has  no  existence  in  his  mind  —  but  of  his 
wife,  a  part  of  himself,  to  receive.  You  may  imagine 
how  regardless  of  me,  how  obtuse  to  the  possibility  of  my 
having  any  individual  sentiment  or  opinion  he  is,  when 
he  tells  me,  openly,  that  I  am  so  employed.  You  know 
how  perfectly  indiflPerent  to  your  feelings  he  is,  when  he 
threatens  you  with  such  a  messenger.  As  you,  of 
course,  have  not  forgotten  that  he  did.'* 

She  watched  him  still  attentively.  But  he  watched 
her  too ;  and  he  saw  that  this  indication  of  a  knowledge 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  283 

on  bis  part,  of  something  that  had  passed  between  her 
self  and  her  husband,  rankled  and  smarted  in  her  haugh- 
ty breast,  like  a  poisoned  arrow. 

"  I  do  not  recall  all  this  to  widen  the  breach  between 
yourself  and  Mr.  Dombey,  madam  —  Heaven  forbid  ! 
what  would  it  profit  me  —  but  as  an  example  of  the 
hopelessness  of  impressing  Mr.  Dombey  with  a  sense 
that  anybody  is  to  be  considered  when  he  is  in  question. 
We  who  are  about  him,  have,  in  our  various  positions, 
done  our  part,  I  dare  say,  to  confirm  him  in  his  way  of 
thinking;  but  if  we  had  not  done  so,  others  would  —  or 
they  would  not  have  been  about  him  ;  and  it  has  always 
been,  from  the  beginning,  the  very  staple  of  his  life. 
Mr.  Dombey  has  had  to  deal,  in  short,  with  none  but 
submissive  and  dependent  persons,  who  have  bowed  the 
knee,  and  bent  the  neck,  before  him.  He  has  never 
known  what  it  is  to  have  angry  pride  and  strong  resent- 
ment opposed  to  him," 

"  But  he  will  know  it  now ! "  she  seemed  to  say  ; 
though  her  lips  did  not  part,  nor  her  eyes  falter.  He 
saw  the  soft  down  tremble  once  again,  and  he  saw  her  lay 
the  plumage  of  the  beautiful  bird  against  her  bosom  for 
a  moment ;  and  he  unfolded  one  more  ring  of  the  coil 
into  which  he  had  gathered  himself. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,  though  a  most  honorable  gentleman," 
he  said,  "  is  so  prone  to  pervert  even  facts  to  his  own 
view,  when  he  is  at  all  opposed,  in  consequence  of  the 
warp  in  his  mind,  that  he  —  can  I  give  a  better  instance 
than  tliis !  —  he  sincerely  believes  (you  will  excuse  the 
folly  of  what  I  am  about  to  say ;  it  not  being  mine) 
that  his  severe  expression  of  opinion  to  his  present  wife, 
on  a  certain  enecial  occasion  she  may  remember,  before 
the  lamented  death  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  j»roduced  a  wither 
^ig  effect,  and  for  the  moment  quite  subdued  her  1  ** 


884  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Edith  laughed.  IIow  harshly  and  unmusically  ueed 
Dot  be  described.  It  is  enough  that  he  was  glad  to  hear 
her. 

"  Madam,"  lie  resumed,  "  I  have  done  with  this.  Your 
own  opinions  are  so  strong,  and,  I  am  persuaded,  so  un- 
alterable," he  repeated  those  words  slowly  and  with  great 
emphasis,  "  that  1  am  almost  afraid  to  incur  your  dis- 
pleasure anew,  when  I  say  that  in  spite  of  these  defects 
and  my  full  knowledge  of  them,  I  have  become  habit- 
uated to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  esteem  him.  But,  when  I 
eay  so,  it  is  not,  believe  me,  for  the  mere  sake  of  vaunt- 
ing a  feeling  that  is  so  utterly  at  variance  with  your  own, 
and  for  which  you  can  have  no  sympathy"  —  oh  how 
distinct  and  plain  and  emphasized  this  was!  "but  to  give 
you  an  assurance  of  the  zeal  with  which,  in  this  unhappy 
matter,  I  am  yours,  and  the  indignation  with  which  I 
regard  the  part  I  am  required  to  fill ! " 

Slie  sat  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  take  her  eyes  from 
his  face. 

And  now  to  unwind  the  last  ring  of  the  coil ! 

"  It  is  growing  late,"  said  Carker,  after  a  pause,  "  and 
you  are,  as  you  said,  fatigued.  But  the  second  object  of 
this  interview,  I  must  not  forget  I  must  recommend 
you,  I  must  entreat  you  in  the  most  earnest  manner,  foi 
Bufficient  reasons  that  I  have,  to  be  cautious  in  youi 
demonstrations  of  regai'd  for  Miss  Dombey  !  " 

"  Cautious  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  To  be  careful  how  you  exhibit  too  much  affection  for 
that  young  lady." 

"  Too  much  affection,  sir !  "  said  Edith,  knitting  her 
broad  brow  and  rising.  "  Who  judges  my  affection,  or 
measures  it  out.     You  ?  " 

••'It  is  not  I  who  do  so."  He  was,  or  feigned  to  be, 
perplexed. 


DOAIBEY  AND  SON.  285 

«  Who  then  ?  " 

"  Can  you  not  guess  who  then  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  guess,"  she  answered. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  after  a  h'ttle  hesitation  ;  meantinae 
they  had  been,  and  still  were,  regarding  each  other  as 
before ;  "  I  am  in  a  difficulty  here.  You  have  told  me 
you  will  receive  no  message,  and  you  have  forbidden  me 
to  return  to  that  subject ;  but  the  two  subjects  are  so 
closely  entwined,  I  find,  that  unless  you  will  accept  this 
vague  caution  from  one  who  has  now  the  honor  to  possess 
your  confidence,  though  the  way  to  it  has  been  through 
your  displeasure,  I  must  violate  the  injunction  you  have 
laid  upon  me." 

'•  You  know  that  you  are  free  to  do  so,  sir,"  said  Edith. 
"  Do  it." 

So  pale,  so  trembling,  so  impassioned !  He  had  not 
miscalculated  the  effect,  then  ! 

"  His  instructions  were,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  that 
I  should  inform  you  that  your  demeanor  towards  Misa 
Dorabey  is  not  agreeable  to  him.  That  it  suggests  com- 
parisons to  him  which  are  not  favorable  to  himself. 
That  he  desires  it  may  be  wholly  changed  ;  and  that 
if  you  are  in  earnest,  he  is  confident  it  will  be ;  for  your 
continued  show  of  affection  will  not  benefit  its  object." 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  he  answered  in  his  voiceless 
manner  of  assent  :  adding  aloud,  "  but  not  directed 
iigainst  you." 

Proud,  erect,  and  dignified,  as  she  stood  confronting 
him ;  and  looking  through  him  as  she  did,  with  her  full 
bright  flashing  eye ;  and  smiling,  as  she  was,  with  scorn 
and  bitterness  ;  she  sunk  as  if  the  ground  had  dropped 
:eneath  her,  and  in  an  instant  would  have  fallen  on  the 


286  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

floor,  but  that  he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  As  instantunei 
ously  she  threw  him  off,  the  moment  that  he  touched 
her,  and,  drawing  back,  confronted  him  again,  imraov- 
Bble,  with  her  hand  stretched  out. 

"  Please  to  leave  me.     Say  no  more  to-night." 

"  I  feel  the  urgency  of  this,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  he- 
cause  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  unforeseen  conse- 
quences might  arise,  or  how  soon,  from  your  being 
unacquainted  with  his  state  of  mind.  I  understand 
Miss  Dombey  is  concerned,  now,  at  the  dismissal  of 
her  old  servant,  wliich  is  likely  to  have  been  a  minor 
consequence  in  itself.  You  don't  blame  me  for  request- 
ing that  Miss  Dombey  might  not  be  present.  May  I 
hope  so  ?  " 

"I  do  not.     Please  to  leave  me,  sir." 

*'  I  knew  that  your  regard  for  the  young  lady,  which 
is  very  sincere  and  strong,  I  am  well  persuaded,  would 
render  it  a  great  unhappiness  to  you,  ever  to  be  a  prey 
to  the  reflection  that  you  had  injured  her  position  and 
mined  her  future  hopes,"  said  Carker,  hurriedly,  but 
eagerly. 

"  No  more  to-night.     Leave  me,  if  you  please." 

"  I  shall  be  here  constantly  in  my  attendance  upon 
him,  and  in  the  transaction  of  business  matters.  You 
will  allow  me  to  see  you  again,  and  to  consult  what 
Bhould  be  done,  and  learn  your  wishes  ? " 

She  motioned  him  towards  the  door. 

"  I  cannot  even  decide  whether  to  tell  him  I  have 
Bl)oken  to  you  yet;  or  to  lead  him  to  suppose  that  I 
\iave  deferred  doing  so,  for  want  of  opportunity,  or  U>r 
»ny  other  reason.  It  will  be  necessary  that  you  should 
enable  rae  to  consult  with  you  very  soon." 

**  At  any  time  but  now,"  she  answered. 


DOMREY  AND  SOX.  287 

"  You  will  understand,  when  I  wish  to  see  you,  that 
Miss  Doinbey  is  not  to  be  present ;  and  that  I  seek  an 
interview  as  one  who  lias  the  happiness  to  possess  your 
conlidence,  and  who  comes  to  render  you  eveiy  assist- 
ance in  his  power,  and,  perhaps,  on  many  occasions,  tc 
ward  olF  evil  from  her?" 

Looking  at  hira  still  with  the  same  apparent  dread  of 
releasing  him  for  a  moment  from  the  influence  of  her 
steady  gaze,  whatever  that  might  be,  she  answered, 
**  Yes ! "  and  once  more  bade  hira  go. 

He  bowed,  as  if  in  compliance  ;  but  turning  back, 
when  he  had  nearly  reached  the  door,  said  : 

"  I  am  forgiven,  and  have  explained  my  fault.  May 
I  —  for  Miss  Dombey's  sake,  and  for  my  own  —  take 
your  hand  before  I  go  ?  " 

She  gave  him  the  gloved  hand  she  had  maimed  last 
night.  He  took  it  in  one  of  his,  and  kissed  it,  and  with- 
drew. And  when  he  had  closed  the  door,  he  waved  the 
hand  with  which  he  had  taken  hers,  and  thrust  it  in  hia 
breast. 


288  DOMBET   AND  SON 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

EECOGNIZANT  AND  REFLECTIVE. 

Among  sundry  minor  altei-ations  in  Mr.  Carker'a  life 
and  habits  that  began  to  take  place  at  this  time,  none 
was  more  remarkable  than  the  extraordinary  dihgence 
with  wiiich  he  applied  himself  to  business,  and  the  close- 
ness with  which  he  investigated  every  detail  that  the 
affairs  of  the  House  laid  open  to  him.  Always  active 
and  penetrating  in  such  matters,  his  lynx-eyed  vigilance 
now  increased  twenty-fold.  Not  only  did  his  weary 
watch  keep  pace  with  every  present  point  that  every  day 
presented  to  him  in  some  new  form,  but  in  the  midst  of 
these  engrossing  occupations  he  found  leisure  —  that  is, 
he  made  it  —  to  review  the  past  transactions  of  the  Firm, 
and  his  share  in  them,  during  a  long  series  of  years. 
Frequently  when  the  clerks  were  all  gone,  the  offices 
dark  and  empty,  and  all  similar  places  of  business  shut 
up,  Mr.  Carker,  with  the  whole  anatomy  of  the  iron 
room  laid  bare  before  him,  would  explore  the  mysteries 
of  books  and  papers,  with  the  patient  progress  of  a  man 
who  was  dissecting  the  minutest  nerves  and  fibres  of  his 
subject.  Perch,  the  messenger,  who  usually  remained  on 
these  occasions,  to  entertain  himself  with  the  perusal  of 
the  Price  Current  by  the  light  of  one  candle,  or  to  doze 
over  the  fire  in  the  outer  office,  at  the  imminent  risk 
?very  moment-  of  diving  head-foremost  into  the  coal-box^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  289 

could  not  withhold  the  tribute  of  his  admiration  from  this 
Eealous  conduct,  although  it  much  contracted  his  domestic 
enjoyments  ;  and  again,  and  again,  expatiated  to  Mrs. 
Perch  (now  nursing  twins)  on  the  industry  and  acute- 
ne-ss  of  their  managing  gentleman  in  the  City. 

The  same  increased  and  sharp  attention  that  Mr 
Carker  bestowed  on  the  business  of  the  House,  he  ap- 
plied to  his  own  personal  affairs.  Though  not  a  partner 
in  the  concern  —  a  distinction  hitherto  reserved  solely  to 
inheritors  of  the  great  name  of  Dombey  —  he  was  in  the 
receipt  of  some  per  centage  on  its  dealings ;  and,  partici- 
pating in  all  its  facilities  for  the  employment  of  money  to 
advantage,  was  considered,  by  the  minnows  among  the 
tritons  of  the  East,  a  rich  man.  It  began  to  be  said, 
among  these  shrewd  observers,  that  Jem  Carker,  of 
Dombey 's,  was  looking  about  him  to  see  what  he  was 
worth ;  and  that  he  was  calling  in  his  money  at  a  good 
time,  like  the  long-headed  fellow  he  was ;  and  bets  wero 
even  offered  on  the  Stock  Exchange  that  Jem  was  going 
to  marry  a  rich  widow. 

Yet  these  cares  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  Mr. 
Carker's  watching  of  his  chief,  or  with  his  cleanness, 
neatness,  sleekness,  or  any  cat-like  quality  he  possessed. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  there  was  a  change  in  him,  in 
reference  to  any  of  his  habits,  as  that  the  whole  man  was 
intensified-  Everything  that  had  been  observable  in  him 
before,  was  observable  now,  but  with  a  greater  amount 
of  concentration.  He  did  each  single  thing,  as  if  he  did 
Dotiiing  else  —  a  pretty  certain  indication  in  a  man 
of  that  range  of  ability  and  purpose,  that  he  is  doing 
something  which  sharpens  and  keeps  alive  his  keenest 
powers. 

The  only  decided  alteration  in  him,  was,  that  as  ha 

VOL.  Ill  19 


290  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

rode  to  and  fro  along  the  streets,  he  would  fall  into  deep 
fits  of  musing,  like  that  in  which  he  had  ooine  away  from 
Mr.  Dombey's  house,  on  the  morning  of  that  gentleman's 
disaster.  At  such  times,  he  would  keep  clear  of  the 
obstacles  in  his  way,  mechanically  ;  and  would  appear  to 
eee  and  hear  nothing  until  arrival  at  his  destination,  cr 
some  sudden  chance  or  effort  roused  him. 

Walking  his  white-legged  horse  thus,  to  the  counting- 
house  of  Dombey  and  Son  one  day,  he  was  as  uncon- 
scious of  the  observation  of  two  paii-s  of  Avomen's  eyes,  as 
of  the  fascinated  orbs  of  Rob  the  Grinder,  who,  in  wait- 
ing a  street's  length  from  the  appointed  place,  as  a  dem- 
onstration of  punctuality,  vainly  touched  and  retouched 
his  hat  to  attract  attention,  and  trotted  along  on  foot,  by 
his  master's  side,  prepared  to  hold  his  stirrup  when  he 
should  alight 

"  See  where  he  goes ! "  cried  one  of  these  two  women, 
an  old  creature,  who  stretched  out  her  shrivelled  arm  to 
point  him  out  to  her  companion,  a  young  woman,  who 
stood  close  beside  her,  withdrawn  like  herself  into  a 
gate-way. 

Mrs.  Brown's  daughter  looked  out,  at  this  bidding  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Brown ;  and  there  were  wrath  and 
vengeance  in  her  face. 

"  I  never  thought  to  look  at  him  again,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice ;  "  but  it's  well  I  should,  perhaps.  I  see. 
I  see!" 

"  Not  changed  ! "  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  look  of 
eager  malice. 

"  He  changed  I  "  returned  the  oth(;r.  "  What  for  ? 
What  has  he  suffered  ?  There  is  cliange  enough  for 
Iwtnty  in  me.     Isn't  that  enough  ? " 

*'  iiee   where   he   goes  ! '    muttered    the   old   woman. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  291 

watching  her  daughter  with  her  red  eyes ;  "  so  easy 
Mid  so  ti'ira,  a'  horseback,  while  we  are  in  the  mud  "  — 

"  Ai>d  of  it,"  said  her  daughter  impatiently.  "  We  are 
raud,  underneath  his  horse's  feet.    What  shodld  we  be  ?  " 

In  the  intentness  with  which  she  looked  after  him 
again,  she  made  a  hasty  gesture  with  her  hand  when  the 
old  woman  began  to  reply,  as  if  her  view  could  be  ob- 
structed by  mere  sound.  Her  mother  watching  her,  and 
Dot  him,  remained  silent ;  until  her  kindling  glance  sub- 
sided, and  she  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  in  the  relief  of 
his  being  gone. 

"  Deary !  "  said  the  old  woman  then.  "  Alice  !  Hand- 
some gal !  Ally !  "  She  gently  shook  her  sleeve  to 
arouse  her  attention.  "  Will  you  let  him  go  like  that, 
when  you  can  wring  money  from  him.  Why,  it's  a 
wickedness,  my  daughter." 

"  Haven't  I  told  you,  that  I  will  not  have  money  from 
him  ?  "  she  returned.  "  And  don't  you  yet  believe  me  ? 
Did  I  take  his  sister's  money  ?  Would  I  touch  a  penny, 
if  I  knew  it,  that  had  gone  through  his  white  hands  — 
unless,  it  was,  indeed,  that  I  could  poison  it,  and  send  it 
back  to  him  ?     Peace,  mother,  and  come  away." 

"  And  him  so  rich  ?  "  murmured  the  old  woman. 
"  And  us  so  poor  !  " 

"  Poor  in  not  being«able  to  pay  him  any  of  the  harm 
we  owe  him,"  returned  her  daughter.  "  Let  him  give 
me  that  sort  of  riches,  and  I'll  take  them  from  him  and 
ase  them.  Come  away.  It's  no  good  looking  at  his 
horse.     Come  away,  mother  !  " 

But  the  old  woman,  for  whom  the  spectacle  of  Rob  the 
Grinder  returning  down  the  street,  leading  the  riderless 
aorse,  appeared  to  have  some  extraneous  interest  that  ii 
:iid  not  possess  in  itself,  surveyed  that  young  man  with 


292  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  utmost  earnestness ;  and  seeming  to  have  whatever 
doubts  she  entertained,  resolved  as  he  drew  nearer, 
Elanced  at  her  daughter  with  brightened  eyes  and  with 
her  finger  oh  her  lip,  and  emerging  from  the  gate-way  at 
the  moment  of  his  passing,  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

''  Why,  where's  ray  sprightly  Rob  been,  all  this  time  ' 
§he  said,  as  he  turned  round. 

The  sprightly  Rob,  whose  sprightliness  was  very  much 
diminished  by  the  salutation,  looked  exceedingly  dijh 
mayed,  and  said,  with  the  water  rising  in  his  eyes : 

"  Oh  !  why  can't  you  leave  a  poor  cove  alone,  Misses 
Brown,  when  he's  getting  an  honest  livelihood  and  con- 
ducting himself  respectable  ?  What  do  you  come  and 
deprive  a  cove  of  his  character  for,  by  talking  to  Lim 
in  the  streets,  when  he's  taking  his  master's  horse  to  a 
honest  stable  —  a  horse  you'd  go  and  sell  for  cats'  and 
dogs'  meat  if  you  had  your  way !  Why,  I  thought,"  said 
the  Grinder,  producing  his  concluding  remark  as  if  it 
were  the  climax  of  all  his  injuries,  "  that  you  was  dead 
long  ago ! " 

"  This  is  the  way,"  cried  the  old  woman,  appealing  to 
her  daughter,  "  that  he  talks  to  me,  who  knew  him  weeks 
and  months  together,  my  deary,  and  have  stood  his  friend 
many  and  many  a  time  among  the  pigeon-fancying  tramps 
and  bird-catchers."  • 

"  L«t  the  birds  be,  will  you,  Misses  Brown  ?  "  retorted 
Rob,  in  a  tone  of  the  acutest  anguish.  "  I  think  a  cove 
had  better  have  to  do  with  lions  than  them  little  creeturs, 
for  they're  always  flying  back  in  your  face  when  you 
least  expect  it.  Well,  how  d'ye  do  and  what  do  you 
want !  "  These  polite  inquiries  the  Grinder  uttered,  as 
it  were  under  protest,  and  with  great  exasperation  and 
vindictiveness. 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  298 

**  Hark  iiow  he  speaks  to  an  old  frieiul,  my  deary ! 
«aid   Mrs.   Brown,    again     appealing    to    her   daughter. 
"  But  there's  some  of  his  old   friends  not  so  patient  as 
me.    If  I  was  to  tell  some  that  he  knows,  and  has  sported 
and  cheated  with,  where  to  find  him  "  — 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  ]\Iisses  Brown  ?  "  inter 
rupted  the  miserable  Grinder,  glancing  quickly  round, 
as  though  he  expected  to  see  ^is  master's  teeth  shining 
at  his  elbow.  "  What  do  you  take  a  pleasure  in  ruining 
a  tx)ve  for?  At  your  time  of  life  too !  when  you  ought 
to  be  thinking  of  a  variety  of  things  !  " 

"  What  a  gallant  horse ! "  said  the  old  woman,  patting 
the  animal's  neck. 

"  Let  him  alone,  will  you.  Misses  Brown  ?  "  cried  Rob, 
pushing  away  her  hand.  "You're  enough  to  drive  a 
penitent  cove  mad  !  " 

"  Why,  what  hurt  do.  I  do  him,  child  ?  "  returned  the 
old  woman. 

''  Hurt  ?  "  said  Rob.  "  lie's  got  a  master  that  would 
find  it  oxit  if  he  was  touched  with  a  straw."  And  he 
blew  upon  the  place  where  the  old  woman's  hand  had 
rested  for  a  moment,  and  smoothed  it  gently  with  his  fin- 
ger, as  if  he  seriously  believed  what  he  said. 

The  old  woman  looking  back  to  mumble  and  mouth 
at  her  daughter,  who  followed,  kept  close  to  Rob's  heels 
as  he  walked  on  with  the  bridle  in  his  hand  ;  and  pur- 
sued the  conversation. 

"  A  good  place,  Rob,  eh  .'' "  said  she.  "  You're  in 
'u?k,  my  child." 

"  Oh  don't  talk  about  luck.  Misses  Brown,"  returned 
the  wretched  Grinder,  facing  round  and  stopping.  "  If 
fou'd  never  come,  or  if  you'd  go  away,  then  indee;!  a 
cove  niight  be  considered  tolerable  lucky.     Can't  you  gy 


294  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

along,  Misses  Brown,  and  not  foller  me! "  bliibberud  R6\\ 
with  tudden  defiance.  "  If  the  young  woman's  a  friend 
of  yours,  why  don't  she  take  you  away,  instead  of  letting 
you  make  yourself  so  disgraceful !  " 

"  What ! "  croaked  the  old  woman,  putting  her  face 
close  to  his,  with  a  malevolent  gi'in  upon  it  that  puck- 
ered up  the  loose  skin  down  in  her  very  throat.  "  Do 
you  deny  your  old  chum !  Have  you  lurked  to  ray 
house  fifty  times,  and  slept  sound  in  a  corner  when  you 
had  no  other  bed  but  the  paving-stones,  and  do  you  talk 
to  me  like  this  !  Have  I  bought  and  sold  with  you,  and 
helped  you  in  my  way  of  business,  school-boy,  sneak, 
and  what  not,  and  do  you  tell  me  to  go  along  ?  ^  Could 
I  raise  a  crowd  of  old  company  about  you  to-morrow 
morning,  that  would  follow  you  to  ruin  like  copies  of 
your  own  shadow,  and  do  you  turn  on  me  with  your 
bold  looks  !     I'll  go.     Come  Ali.ce." 

"  Stop,  Misses  Brown  !  "  cried  the  distracted  Grinder. 
"  What  are  you  doing  of?  Don't  put  yourself  in  a 
pa>;sion  !  Don't  let  her  go,  if  you  please.  I  haven't 
meant  any  offence.  I  said  '  how  d'ye  do,'  at  first,  didn't 
I?  But  you  wouldn't  answer.  How-rfo  you  do?  Be- 
sides," said  Rob  piteously,  "  look  here !  How  can  a 
cove  stand  talking  in  the  street  with  his  master's  prad 
a- wan  ting  to  be  took  to  be  rubbed  down,  and  his  master 
up  to  every  individgle  thing  that  happens  ?  " 

The  old  woman  made  a  show  of  being  partially  ap- 
posed, but  shook  her  head,  and  mouthed  and  muttered 
still. 

"  Come  along  to  the  stables,  and  have  a  glass  of 
something  that's  good  for  you,  Misses  Brown,  can't 
you  ?  "  said  Rob,  "  instead  of  going  on,  like  that,  which 
is  no  good   to   you,  nor   anybody  else  ?      Come   along 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2W 

w^ith  her,  will  you  be  so  kind  ? "  said  Rob.  "  I'm 
sure  I'm  delighted  to  see  her,  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
horse  ! " 

With  this  apology,  Rob  turned  away,  a  rueful  picture 
of  despair,  and  walked  his  charge  down  a  by-street 
The  old  woman,  mouthing  at  her  daughter,  followed 
close  upon  him.     The  daughter  followed. 

Turning  into  a  silent  little  square  or  court-yard  that 
had  a  great  church-tower  rising  above  it,  and  a  packer's 
warehouse,  and  a  bottle-maker's  warehouse,  for  its  places 
of  business,  Rob  the  Grinder  delivered  the  white-legged 
horse  to  the  hostler  of  a  quaint  stable  at  the  corner;  and 
inviting  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  to  seat  themselves 
upon  a  stone  bench  at  the  gate  of  that  establishment, 
soon  reappeared  from  a  neighboring  public-house  with  a 
pewter  measure  and  a  glass. 

"  Here's  master  —  Mr.  Carker,  child  !  "  said  the  old 
woman,  slowly,  as  her  sentiment  before  drinking.  "Lord 
bless  him  !  " 

"  Why,  I  didn't  tell  you  who  he  was,"  observed  Rob, 
with  staring  eyes. 

"  We  know  him  by  sight,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  whose 
working  mouth  and  nodding  head,  stopped  for  the  rao- 
mcnt,  in  the  fixedness  of  her  attention.  "  We  saw  hina 
pa:>s  this  morning,  afore  he  got  off  his  horse ;  when  you 
were  ready  to  take  it." 

"  Ay,  ay  ?  "  returned  Rob,  appearing  to  wish  that  his 
earliness  had  carried  hira  to  any  other  place.  —  "  What's 
Uie  matter  with  her  ?     Won't  she  drink  ?  " 

This  inquiry  had  reference  to  Alice,  who,  folded  in  her 
cloak,  sat  a  little  apart  profoundly  inattentive  to  his  offer 
of  the  replenished  glass. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.     "  Don'l   mind  her,* 


296  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

she  said ;  **  she's  a  strange  creetur,  if  you  know'd  lier, 
Rob.     But  Mr.  Carker  "  — 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Rob,  gUuicing  cjxutiously  up  at  the 
packer's,  and  at  the  bottle-maker's,  as  if,  from  any  one 
of  the  tiers  of  warehouses,  Mr.  Carker  might  be  looking 
down.     "  Softly." 

"  Why,  he  a'n't  here  !  "  cried  ISIrs.  Brown. 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  muttered  Rob,  whose  glance  evei« 
wandered  to  the  church-tower,  as  if  he  might  be  there, 
with  a  supernatural  power  of  hearing. 

"  Good  master  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Brown. 

Rob  nodded ;  and  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  precioua 
sharp." 

''  Lives  out  of  town,  don't  he,  lovey  ?  "  said  the  old 
woman. 

"  "When  he's  at  home,"  returned  Rob  ;  "  but  we  don't 
live  at  home  just  now." 

"  "Where  then  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

'•  Lodgings ;  up  near  Mr.  Dombey's,"  returned  Rob. 

The  younger  woman  fixed  her  eyes  so  searchingly 
upon  him,  and  so  suddenly,  that  Rob  was  «quite  con- 
founded, and  offered  the  glass  again,  but  with  no  more 
effect  upon  her  than  before. 

"  Mr.  Dombey  —  you  and  I  used  to  ttdk  about  liira, 
sometimes,  you  know,"  said  Rob  to  Mrs.  Brown.  "Yen 
used  to  get  me  to  talk  about  him." 

The  old  woman  nodded. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dombey,  he's  had  a  fall  from  his  horee," 
said  Rob,  unwillingly;  "and  my  master  has  to  be  up 
there,  more  than  usual,  either  with  him,  or  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, or  some  of  'em ;  and  so  we've  come  to   town." 

"  Are  they  good  friends,  lovey  ? "  asked  the  old 
woman 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  297 

"Who?  '  retorted  Rob. 

«  He  and  she  ?  " 

•'  What,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dorabey  ?  "  said  Rob.  "  How 
!(liou]d  /  know  !  " 

"  Not  them  —  Master  and  Mrs.  Dombey,  chick,"  re- 
plied the  old  woman,  coaxingly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Rob,  looking  round  him  again. 
"  I  suppose  so.     How  curious   you  are,  Misses  Brown 
Least  said,  soonest   mended." 

"  Why  there's  no  harm  in  it ! "  exclaimed  the  old 
woman,  with  a  laugh  and  a  clap  of  her  hands.  "  Spright* 
ly  Rob  has  grown  tame  since  he  has  been  well  off  I 
There's  no  harm  in   it." 

"  No,  there's  no  liarm  in  it,  I  know,"  returned  Rob, 
with  the  same  distrustful  glance  at  the  packer's  and  the 
bottle-maker's,  a4id  the  church  ;  "  but  blabbing,  if  it's 
only  about  the  number  of  buttons  on  my  master's  coat, 
won't  do.  I  tell  you  it  won't  do  with  him.  A  cove  had 
better  drown  himself.  He  says  so.  I  shouldn't  have 
80  much  as  told  you  what  his  name  was,  if  you  hadn'( 
known  it.     Talk  about  somebody  else." 

As  Rob  took  another  cautious  survey  of  the  yard,  the 
old  woman  made  a  secret  motion  to  her  daughter.  It 
was  momentary,  but  the  daughter,  with  a  slight  look  of 
intelligence,  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  boy's  face,  and 
sat  folded  in  her  cloak  as  before. 

"  Rob,  lovey  ! "  said  the  old  woman,  beckoning  hira  to 
the  other  end  of  the  bench.  "  You  were  always  a  pet 
and  favorite  of  mine.  Now,  weren't  you  ?  Don't  yoa 
know  you  were  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Misses  Brown,"  replied  the  Grinder,  with  a 
rery  bad  grace. 

"And  you  tould    leave  me!"    said   the  old   wonmn. 


298  DOMBET   kKD  SON. 

flinging  her  arms  about  his  neck.  "  You  could  go  away, 
and  grow  almost  out  of  knowledge,  and  never  come  to 
tell  your  poor  old  friend  how  fortunate  you  were,  proud 
lad  !     Oho,  oho !  " 

"  Oh  here's  a  dreadful  go  for  a  cove  that's  got  a 
master  wide  awake  in  the  neighborhood ! "  exclaimed 
the  wretched  Grinder.  "  To  be  howled  over  like  this 
here ! " 

"  Won't  you  come  and  see  me,  Robby  ? "  cried  Mrs. 
Brown.     "  Oho,  won't  you  ever  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  tell  you  !  Yes,  I  will !  "  returned  the  Grin 
der. 

"  That's  my  own  Rob  !  That's  my  lovey  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  drying  the  tears  upon  her  shrivelled  face,  and 
giving  him  a  tender  squeeze.     "  At  the  old  place,  Rob  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Grinder. 

"  Soon,  Robby,  dear  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown  ;  "  and 
often  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Yes.  Yes,"  replied  Rob.  "  I  will  indeed, 
upon  my  soul  and  body." 

"  And  then,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  her  arms  uplifted 
towards  the  sky,  and  her  head  thrown  back  and  shaking, 
*'  if  he's  true  to  his  word,  I'll  never  come  a-near  him, 
though  I  know  where  he  is,  and  never  breathe  a  syllable 
about  him  !     Never  !  " 

This  ejaculation  seemed  a  drop  of  comfort  to  the 
miserable  Grinder,  who  shook  Mrs.  Brown  by  the  hand 
Upon  it,  and  implored  her  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  to  leave 
a  cove,  and  not  destroy  his  prospects.  Mi-s.  Brown, 
with  another  fond  embrace,  assented  ;  but  in  the  act  of 
following  her  daughter,  turned  back,  with  her  finger 
stealthily  raised,  and  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper  foi 
tow9  money. 


DOMBEY  AXD  SON.  299 

**  A  ehilling,  dear ! "  she  said,  with  her  eager,  avari 
cious  face,  "  or  sixpence !  For  old  acquaintance'  sake. 
I'm  so  poor.  And  my  handsome  gal "  —  looking  over 
her  shoulder  —  "  she's  my  gal,  Rob  —  half  starves  me. 

But  as  the  reluctant  Grinder  put  it  in  her  hand,  her 
daughter,  coming  quietly  back,  caught  the  hand  in  hers 
and  twisted  out  the  coin. 

"  What,"  she  said,  "  mother !  always  money  !  money 
from  the  first,  and  to  the  last.  Do  you  mind  so  little 
what  I  said  but  now  ?     Here.     Take  it !  " 

The  old  woman  uttered  a  moan  as  the  money  was 
restored,  but  without  in  any  other  way  opposing  its 
restoration,  hobbled  at  her  daughter's  side  out  of  the 
yard,  and  along  the  by-street  upon  which  it  opened. 
The  astonished  and  dismayed  Rob  staring  after  them, 
saw  that  they  stopped,  and  fell  to  earnest  conversation 
very  soon ;  and  more  than  once  observed  a  darkly 
threatening  action  of  the  younger  woman's  hand  (ob- 
viously having  reference  to  some  one  of  whom  they 
spoke),  and  a  crooning  feeble  imitation  of  it  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Brown,  that  made  him  earnestly  hope  he  might 
not  be  the  subject  of  their  discourse. 

With  the  present  consolation  that  they  were  gone,  and 
with  the  prospective  comfort  that  Mrs.  Brown  could  not 
live  forever,  and  was  not  likely  to  live  long  to  trouble 
him,  the  Grinder,  not  otherwise  regretting  his  misdeeds 
than  as  they  were  attended  with  such  disagreeable  inci- 
dental consequences,  composed  his  ruffled  features  to  a 
more  serene  expression  by  thinking  of  the  admirable 
manner  in  which  he  had  disposed  of  Captain  Cuttle  (a 
reflection  that  seldom  failed  to  put  him  in  a  flow  of 
spirits),  and  went  to  the  Dombey  counting-house  to  re* 
ceive  his  master's  orders. 


300  DOMBEY  AND  S0«. 

There  his  master,  so  subtle  and  vigilant  of  eye,  that 
Rob  quaked  before  him,  more  than  half  expecting  to  be 
taxed  with  Mrs.  Brown,  gave  him  the  usual  morning's  box 
of  papers  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  a  note  for  Mrs.  Dombey : 
merely  nodding  his  head  as  an  enjoinder  to  be  caieful, 
and  to  use  despatch  —  a  mysterious  admonition,  fraught 
in  the  Grinder's  imagination  with  dismal  warnings  and 
threats  ;  and  more  powerful  with  him  than  any  words. 

Alone  again,  in  his  own  room,  Mr.  darker  applied 
himself  to  work,  and  worked  all  day.  He  saw  many 
visitors ;  overlooked  a  number  of  documents ;  went  in 
and  out,  to  and  from,  sundry  places  of  mercantile  resort ; 
and  indulged  in  no  more  abstraction  until  the  day's  busi- 
ness was  done.  But,  when  the  usual  clearance  of  papers 
from  his  table  was  made  at  last,  he  fell  into  his  thought- 
ful mood  once  more. 

He  was  standing  in  his  accustomed  place  and  attitude, 
with  his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  ground,  when  his 
brother  entered  to  bring  back  some  letters  that  had  been 
taken  out  in  the  course  of  the  day.  He  put  them  quietly 
on  the  table,  and  was  going  immediately,  when  Mr.  dar- 
ker the  manager,  whose  eyes  had  rested  on  him  on  his 
entrance,  as  if  they  had  all  this  time  had  him  for  the 
subject  for  their  contemplation,  instead  of  the  office-floor, 
said : 

"  "Well,  John  darker,  and  what  brings  ffou  here  ?  ** 

His  brother  pointed  to  the  letters,  and  was  again  witb 
il  rawing. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  manager,  "  that  you  can  com* 
and  go,  without  inquiring  how  our  master  is." 

"  We  had  word  this  morning,  in  the  counting-house, 
that  Mr.  Dombey  was  doing  well,"  replied  his  brother. 

"  You  are  such  a  meek  fellow,"  said  the  manager  witb 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  SOl 

%  smile  — "  but  you  have  grown  so,  in  the  course  o* 
fears  —  that  if  any  harm  came  to  him,  you'd  be  misera* 
ole,  I  dare  swear  now." 

"  I  should  be  truly  sorry,  James,"  returned  the  other. 

"  He  would  be  sorry  !  "  said  the  manager,  pointing  at 
liim,  as  if  there  were  some  other  person  present  to  whom 
he  was  appealing.  "  He  would  be  truly  sorry !  This 
brother  of  mine !  This  junior  of  the  place,  this  slighted 
piece  of  lumber,  pushed  aside  with  his  face  to  the  wall, 
like  a  rotten  picture,  and  left  so,  for  Heaven  knows  how 
many  years  ;  ^e's  all  gratitude  and  respect,  and  devotion 
too,  he  would  have  me  believe  !  " 

"  I  would  have  you  believe  nothing,  James,"  returned 
the  other.  "  Be  as  just  to  me  as  you  would  to  any  other 
man  below  you.     You  ask  a  question,  and  I  answer  it." 

"  And  have  you  nothing,  spaniel,"  said  the  manager, 
with  unusual  irascibility,  "to  complain  of  in  him?  No 
proud  treatment  to  resent,  no  insolence,  no  foolery  of 
state,  no  exaction  of  any  sort !  What  the  devil !  are  you 
man  or  mouse  ?  " 

"It  would  be  strange  if  any  two  persons  could  be  to- 
gether for  so  many  years,  especially  as  superior  and  in- 
ferior, without  each  having  something  to  complain  of  in 
the  other  —  as  he  thought,  at  all  events,"  replied  John 
Carker.      "  But  apart  from    my  history  here  "  — 

"  His  history  here  !  "  exclaimed  the  manager.  "  Why, 
there  it  is.  The  very  fact  that  makes  hira  an  extreme 
wise,  puts  hira  out  of  the  whole  chapter  !     Well  ?  " 

"Apart  from  that,  which,  as  you  hint,  gives  me  a  te&- 
jon  to  be  thankful  that  I  alone  (happily  for  all  the  rest) 
possess,  surely  there  is  no  one  in  the  house  who  would 
oot  say  and  feel  at  least  as  much.  Yon  do  not  think 
'Jbat  anybody  here  would  be  indifferent  to  a  mischance 


502  DOMBEt    AND   BON. 

or  misfortune  happening  to  the  head  of  the  House,  <a 
anything  than  truly  sorry  for  it  ? " 

"  You  have  good  reason  to  be  bound  to  him  too !  * 
said  the  manager,  contemptuously.  "  Why,  don't  you 
believe  that  you  are  kept  here,  as  a  cheap  example,  and 
a  famous  instance  of  the  clemency  of  Dombey  and  Son, 
redounding  to  the  credit  of  the  illustrious  House  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  his  brother  mildly,  "I  have  long  be- 
lieved that  I  am  kept  here  for  more  kind  and  disinter^ 
ested  reasons." 

"  But  you  were  going,"  said  the  manager,  with  the 
snarl  of  a  tiger-cat,  "  to  recite  some  Christian  precept,  I 
observed." 

"  Nay,  James,"  returned  the  other,  "  though  the  tie  of 
brotherhood  between  us  has  been  long  broken  and  thrown 
away  "  — 

"  Who  broke  it,  good  sir  ?  "  said  the  manager. 

"  I,  by  my  misconduct.     I  do  not  charge  it  upon  you." 

The  manager  replied,  with  that  mute  action  of  his 
bristling  mouth,  "  Oh,  you  don't  charge  it  upon  me ! " 
and  bade  him  go  on. 

"  I  say,  though  there  is  not  that  tie  between  us,  do 
not,  I  entreat,  assail  me  with  unnecessary  taunts,  or  mis- 
interpret what  I  say,  or  would  say.  I  was  only  going  to 
suggest  to  you  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
it  is  only  you,  who  have  been  selected  here,  above  all 
otheis,  for  advancement,  confidence,  and  distinction  (se- 
lected, in  the  beginning,  I  know,  ^or  your  great  ability 
and  trustfulness),  and  who  communicate  more  freely 
with  Mr.  Dombey  than  any  one,  and  stand,  it  may  be 
said,  on  equal  terms  with  him,  and  have  been  favored 
and  enriched  by  him  —  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to 
luppose  that  it  is  only  you  who  are  tender  of  his  welfare 


DOMBEY  Ami  SON.  808 

»nJ  reputation.  There  is  no  one  in  the  house,  from 
yourself  down  to  the  lowest,  I  sincerely  believe,  who  does 
not  participate  in  that  feeling." 

"  You  lie,"  said  the  Manager,  red  with  sudden  anger. 
**  You're  a  hypocrite,  John  Carker,  and  you  lie ! " 

"  James ! "    cried   the    other,    flushing    in    his   turn 
What  do  you  mean  by  these  insulting  words?     Why 
do  you  so  basely  use  them  to  me,  unprovoked  ?  "* 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  manager,  "  that  your  hypocrisy 
and  meekness  —  that  all  the  hypocrisy  and  meekness  of 
this  place — is  not  worth  that  to  me,  snapping  his  thumb 
and  finger,  "  and  that  I  see  through  it  as  if  it  were  air  1 
There  is  not  a  man  employed  here,  standing  between 
myself  and  the  lowest  in  place  (of  whom  you  are  very 
considerate,  and  with  reason,  for  he  is  not  far  off),  who 
wouldn't  be  glad  at  heart  to  see  his  master  humbled, 
who  does  not  hate  him,  secretly :  who  does  not  wish 
him  evil  rather  than  good  :  and  who  would  not  turn 
upon  hira,  if  he  had  the  power  and  boldness.  The 
nearer  to  his  favor,  the  nearer  to  his  insolence ;  the 
closer  to  him,  the  farther  from  him.  That's  the  creed 
here  I " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  his  brother,  whose  roused  feel- 
ings had  soon  yielded  to  surprise,  "  who  may  have 
abused  your  ear  with  such  representations  ;  or  why 
you  have  chosen  to  try  me,  rather  than  another.  But 
that  you  have  been  trying  me,  and  tampering  with  me^ 
I  am  now  sure.  You  have  a  different  manner  and  a  dif- 
ferent aspect  from  any  that  I  ever  saw  in  you  I  will 
only  say  to  you,  once  more,  you  are  deceived." 

"  1  know  I  am,"  said  the  manager.  "  I  have  told 
jirou  so." 

•*  Not  by  me,"   returned  his  brother.     *'  By  your  m 


B04  DOMBET  AND  SOK. 

rormant,  if  you  have  one.     If  not,  by  your  own  thoughts 

and  suspicions." 

"  I  Lave  no  suspicions,"  said  the  manager.  "  Mine 
are  certainties.  You  pusillanimous,  abject,  cringing 
dogs !  All  making  the  same  show,  all  canting  the 
same  story,  all  whining  the  same  professions,  all  har- 
boring the  same  transparent  secret." 

His  brother  withdrew,  without  saying  more,  and  shut 
the  door  as  he  concluded.  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
drew  a  chair  close  before  the  fire,  and  fell  to  beating  the 
coals  softly  with  the  poker. 

"  The  faint-hearted,  fawning  knaves,"  he  muttered, 
with  his  two  shining  rows  of  teeth  laid  bare.  "  There's 
not  one  among  them,  who  wouldn't  feign  to  be  so  shocked 
and  outraged  !  —  Bah  !  There's  not  one  among  them, 
but  if  he  had  at  once  the  power,  and  the  wit  and  daring 
to  use  it,  would  scatter  Dombey's  pride  and  lay  it  low,  as 
ruthlessly  as  I  rake  out  these  ashes." 

As  he  broke  them  up,  and  strewed  them  in  the  grate, 
he  looked  on  with  a  thoughtful  smile,  at  what  he  was 
doing.  "Without  the  same  queen  beckoner  too!"  he 
added  presently;  "and  there  is  a  pride  there,  not  to  be 
forgotten  —  witness  our  own  acquaintance ! "  With  that 
he  fell  into  a  deeper  revery,  and  sat  pondering  over  the 
blackening  grate,  until  he  rose  up  like  a  man  who  had 
been  absorbed  in  a  book,  and  looking  round  him  took 
bis  hat  and  gloves,  went  to  where  his  horse  was  waiting, 
mounted,  and  rode  away  through  the  lighted  streets ; 
fi3r  it  was  evening. 

He  rode  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house ;  and  falling  into  a 
walk  as  he  approached  it,  looked  up  at  the  windows. 
The  window  where  he  had  once  seen  Florence  sitting 
with  her  dog,  attracted  his  attention  first,  though  there 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  806 

was  no  light  in  it ;  but  he  smiled  as  he  carried  his  eyes 
up  the  tall  front  of  the  house,  and  seemed  to  leave  that 
object  superciliously  behind. 

"  Time  was,"  he  said,  "  when  it  was  well  to  watch 
even  your  rising  little  star,  and  know  in  what  quartei 
there  were  clouds,  to  shadow  you  if  needful.  But  a 
planet  has  arisen,  and  you  are  lost  in  its  light." 

He  turned  the  white-legged  horse,  round  the  street 
corner,  and  sought  one  shining  window  from  among  those 
at  the  back  of  the  house.  Associated  with  it  was  a  cer- 
tain stately  presence,  a  gloved  hand,  the  remembrance 
how  the  feathers  of  a  beautiful  bird's  wing  had  been 
Bhowered  down  upon  the  floor,  and  how  the  light  white 
down  upon  a  robe  had  stirred  and  rustled,  as  in  the  ris- 
ing of  a  distant  storm.  These  were  the  things  he  carried 
with  iiim  as  he  turned  away  again,  and  rode  througli  the 
darkening  and  deserted  parks  at  a  quick  rate. 

In  fatal  truth,  these  were  associated  with  a  woman,  a 
proud  woman,  who  hated  him,  but  who  by  slow  and  sure 
degrees  had  been  led  on  by  his  craft,  and  her  pride  and 
resentment,  to  endure  his  company,  and  little  by  little  to 
receive  him  as  one  who  had  the  privilege  to  talk  to  h«r 
i  i"  her  own  defiant  disregard  of  her  own  husband,  and 
her  abandonment  of  high  consideration  for  herself.  They 
were  associated  with  a  woman  who  hated  him  deeply* 
and  who  knew  him,  and  who  mistrusted  him  because  she 
knew  him,  and  because  he  knew  her ;  but  who  fed  her 
fierce  resentment  by  suffering  him  to  draw  nearer  and 
yet  nearer  to  her  every  day,  in  spite  of  the  hate  she 
jherished  for  him.  In  spite  of  it !  For  that  very  reason ; 
«ince  its  depths,  too  far  down  for  her  threatening  eye  to 
oit^rce,  though  she  could  see  into  them  dimly,  lay  the 
dark  retaliation,  whose  faintest  shadow   seen   once   and 


80u  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

ghuddtii-ed  at,  and  never  seen  again,  would  have  been 
sufficient  stain  upon  her  soul. 

Did  the  phantom  of  such  a  woman  flit  about  him  on 
Lis  ride ;  true  to  the  reality,  and  obvious  to  him  ? 

Yes.  He  saw  her  in  his  mind,  exactly  as  she  was 
She  bore  him  company  with  her  pride,  resentment, 
hatred,  all  as  plain  to  him  as  her  beauty ;  with  nothing 
plainer  to  him  than  her  hatred  of  him.  He  saw  her 
sometimes  haughty  and  repellant  at  his  side,  and  some- 
times down  among  his  horse's  feet,  fallen  and  in  the 
dust.  But  he  always  saw  her  as  she  was,  without  dis- 
guise, and  watched  her  on  the  dangerous  way  that  she 
was  going. 

And  when  his  ride  was  over,  and  he  was  newly 
dressed,  and  came  into  the  light  of  her  bright  room  with 
his  bent  head,  soft  voice,  and  soothing  smile,  he  saw  her 
yet  as  plainly.  He  even  suspected  the  mystery  of  the 
gloved  hand,  and  held  it  all  the  longer  in  his  own  for 
that  suspicion.  Upon  the  dangerous  way  that  she  was 
going,  he  was  still ;  and  not  a  footprint  did  she  mark 
apon  it,  but  he  set  his  own  there,  straight 


mn. 


crpi  rliM 


-','.R\S,f-  oi  ti' r   rvcryycry  Caploin  Cuttle,  with  un  ^mferftct 
I  .,  V^.,;.  :.  rti;].  ;.  i'J*V3jri.'ai"3  tjratEunil.  of  u  paiient.todfi 
:.  r-.- K.  ih'  :ri--uit«>i-riiftf,  oTji  hni(i.r:4;  .:  crut  on  his  lujoV: 
crei-rp •^  hand  in  ois,  locked  steadily  &om  oxxe  to  ihe  oihr: 
iKr  difu  u.  no  aocitthiiig  ' 


8  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

necessary  to  correct  and  reduce  her ;  but  otherwise  lie 
Btill  considered  her,  in  his  cold  way,  a  lady  capable  of 
doing  honor,  if  she  would,  to  his  choice  and  name,  and 
of  reflecting  credit  on  his  proprietorship. 

Now,  she  with  all  her  might  of  passionate  and  proud 
resentment,  bent  her  dark  glance  from  day  to  day,  and 
hour  to  hour  —  from  that  night  in  her  own  chamber, 
when  she  had  sat  gazing  at  the  shadows  on  the  wall,  to 
the  deeper  night  fast  coming —  upon  one  figure  directing 
a  crowd  of  hurailiartons  and  exasperations  against  her; 
and  that  figure,  still  her  husband's. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey's  master-vice  that  ruled  him  so  in- 
exorably, an  unnati  ral  characteristic  ?  It  might  be  worth 
while,  sometimes,  to  inquire  what  Nature  is,  and  how  men 
work  to  change  her,  and  whether,  in  the  enforced  distor- 
tions so  produced,  it  is  not  natural  to.be  unnatural.  Coop 
any  son  or  daughter  of  our  mighty  mother  within  narrow 
range,  and  bind  the  prisoner  to  one  idea,  and  foster  it  by 
servile  worship  of  it  on  the  part  of  the  few  timid  or  de- 
signing people  standing  round,  and  what  is  Nature  to  the 
willing  captive  who  has  never  risen  up  upon  the  winga 
of  a  free  mind  —  drooping  and  useless  soon  —  to  see  her 
in  her  comprehensive  truth  ! 

Alas  !  are  there  so  few  things  in  the  world,  about  us, 
most  unnatural,  and  yet  most  natural  in  being  so  !  Hear 
the  magistrate  or  judge  admonish  the  unnatural  outcasts 
of  society ;  unnatural  in  brutal  habits,  unnatural  in  want 
of  decency,  unnatural  in  losing  and  confounding  all  dis- 
tinctions between  good  and  evil ;  unnatural  in  ignorance, 
m  vice,  in  recklessness,  in  contumacy,  in  mind,  in  looks, 
In  everything.  But  follow  the  good  clergyman  or  doc- 
tor, who,  with  his  life  imperilled  at  every  breath  he 
draws,  goes  down  into  their  dens,  lying  within  the  echoes 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  9 

of  cur  carriage-wlieels  and  daily  tread  upon  tht  pave- 
ment stones.  Look  round  upon  the  world  of  odious 
Biglits  —  millions  of  immortal  creatures  have  no  other 
world  on  earth  —  at  the  lightest  mention  of  which  hu- 
manity revolts,  and  dainty  delicacy  living  in  the  next 
street,  stops  her  ears,  and  lisps,  "  I  don't  believe  it !  " 
Dreathe  the  polluted  air,  foul  with  every  impurity  that 
is  poisonous  to  health  and  life  ;  and  have  every  sense, 
conferred  upon  our  race  for  its  delight  and  happiness, 
offended,  sickened,  and  disgusted,  and  made  a  channel 
by  which  misery  and  death  alone  can  enter.  Vainly 
attempt  to  think  of  any  simple  plant,  or  flower,  or 
wholesome  weed,  that,  set  in  this  foetid  bed,  could  have 
its  natural  growth,  or  put  its  little  leaves  forth  to  the 
sun  as  God  designed  it  And  then,  calling  up  some 
ghastly  child,  with  stunted  form  and  wicked  face,  hold 
forth  on  its  unnatural  sinfulness,  and  lament  its  being, 
so  early,  far  away  from  Heaven  —  but  think  a  little 
of  its  having  been  conceived,  and  born  and  bred  in 
Hell! 

Those  who  study  the  physical  sciences,  and  bring 
them  to  bear  upon  the  health  of  man,  tell  us  that  if  the 
noxious  particles  that  rise  from  vitiated  air,  were  pal- 
pable to  the  sight,  we  should  see  them  lowering  in  a 
dense  black  cloud  above  such  haunts,  and  rolling  slowly 
on  to  corrupt  the  better  portions  of  a  town.  But  if  the 
moral  pestilence  that  rises  with  them,  and,  in  the  eter- 
';al  laws  of  outraged  Nature,  is  inseparable  from  them, 
•ould  be  made  discernible  too,  how  terrible  the  revela- 
tion !  Then  should  we  see  depravity,  impiety,  drunk- 
enness, theft,  murder,  and  a  long  train  of  nameless  sins 
against  the  natural  affections  and  repulsions  of  mankind, 
tverhanging  the  devoted  spots,  and  creeping  on,  to  blighf 


10  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

the  innocent  and  spread  contagion  among  the  pure.  Tlien 
Bhould  we  see  how  the  same  poisoned  fountains  tliat  flow 
into  our  hospitals  and  lazar-houses,  inundate  the  jails 
and  make  the  convict-ships  swim  deep,  and  roll  across 
the  seas,  and  over-run  vast  continents  with  crime.  Theu 
should  we  stand  appalled  to  know,  that  where  we  genei. 
ate  disease  to  strike  our  children  down  and  entail  itself 
on  unboi-n  generations,  there  also  we  breed,  by  the  same 
certain  process,  infancy  that  knows  no  innocence,  youth 
without  modesty  or  shame,  maturity  that  is  mature  in 
nothing  but  in  suffering  and  in  guilt,  blasted  old  age  that 
is  a  scandal  on  the  form  we  bear.  Unnatural  humanity ! 
When  we  shall  gather  grapes  from  thoins,  and  tigs  from 
(liistlcs ;  when  fields  of  grain  shall  spring  up  from  the 
offal  in  the  by-ways  of  our  wicked  cities,  and  roses 
bloom  in  the  fat  church-yards  that  they  cherish ;  then 
we  may  look  for  natural  humanity,  and  find  it  growing 
from  suth  seed. 

Oh  for  a  good  spirit  who  would  take  the  house-tops 
otr,  with  a  more  potent  and  benignant  hand  than  the 
lame  demon  in  the  tale,  and  show  a  Christian  people 
what  dark  shapes  issue  from  amidst  their  homes,  to  swel' 
the  retinue  of  the  Destroying  Angel  as  he  moves  fort  I 
among  them  !  For  only  one  night's  view  of  the  pale 
phantoms  rising  from  the  scenes  of  our  too-long  neglect ; 
and,  from  the  thick  and  sullen  air  where  Vice  and  Fever 
propagate  together,  raining  the  tremendous  social  retri- 
butions which  are  ever  pouring  down,  and  ever  coming 
ihicker !  Bright  and  blest  the  morning  that  should  rise 
on  such  a  night:  for  men,  delayed  no  more  by  stum- 
hlitig-blocks  of  their  own  making,  which  are  but  specks 
of  dust  upon  the  path  between  them  and  eternity,  would 
ihen   apply  themselves,  like  creatures  of  one   comz-^oB 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  11 

origin,  owning  one  duty  to  the  Father  of  one  faioilj-,  and 
tending  to  one  common  end,  to  make  the  world  a  better 
place ! 

Not  the  less  bright  and  blest  would  that  day  be  for 
rousing  some  who  never  have  looked  out  upon  the  world 
of  human  life  around  them,  to  a  knowledge  of  their  own 
relation  to  it,  and  for  making  them  acquainted  with  a 
perversion  of  nature  in  their  own  contracted  sympathiea 
and  estimates  ;  as  great,  and  yet  as  natural  in  its  devel- 
opment when  once  begun,  as  the  lowest  degradation 
known. 

But  no  such  day  had  ever  dawned  on  Mr.  Dombey, 
or  his  wife  ;  and  the  course  of  each  was  taken. 

Through  six  months  that  ensued  upon  his  accident 
they  held  the  same  relations  one  towards  liie  other.  A 
marble  rock  could  not  have  stood  more  obdurately  in  his 
way  than  she  ;  and  no  chilled  spring,  lying  uncheered  by 
any  ray  of  light  in  the  depths  of  a  deep  cave,  could  be 
more  sullen  or  more  cold  than  he. 

The  hope  that  had  fluttered  within  her  when  the 
promise  of  her  new  home  dawned,  was  quite  gone  from 
the  heart  of  Florence  now.  That  home  was  nearly  two 
years  old  ;  and  even  the  patient  trust  that  was  in  her, 
could  not  survive  the  daily  blight  of  such  experience. 
If  she  had  any  lingering  fancy  in  the  nature  of  hope 
lef%  that  Edith  and  her  father  might  be  happier  together 
ui  some  distant  time,  she  had  none,  now,  that  her  father 
vrould  ever  love  her.  The  little  interval  in  which  she 
had  imagined  that  she  saw  some  small  relenting  in 
him,  was  forgotten  in  the  long  remerabrarce  of  hia 
coldness  since  and  before,  or  only  remembered  as  a 
sorrowful  delusion. 

Florence  loved  him  still,  but  by  degrees,  had  come  to 


l2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

love  him  rather  as  some  dear  one  who  had  been,  or  who 
might  have  been,  than  as  the  hard  reality  before  hef 
eyes.  Something  of  the  softened  sadness  with  which 
she  loved  the  memory  of  little  Paul,  or  her  mother, 
seemed  to  enter  now  into  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  to 
make  them,  as  it  were,  a  dear  remembrance.  Whether 
it  was  that  he  was  dead  to  her,  and  that  partly  for  this 
reason,  partly  for  his  share  in  those  old  objects  of  her 
affection,  and  partly  for  the  long  association  of  him  with 
hopes  that  were  withered  and  tendernesses  he  had  fro- 
zen, she  could  not  have  told ;  but  the  father  whom  she 
loved  began  to  be  a  vague  and  dreamy  idea  to  her, 
hardly  more  substantially  connected  with  her  real  life, 
than  the  image  she  would  sometimes  conjure  up  of  her 
dear  brother  yet  alive,  and  growing  to  be  a  man,  who 
would  protect  and  cherish  her. 

The  change,  if  it  may  be  called  one,  had  stolen  on 
her  like  the  change  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  and 
had  come  with  it  Florence  was  almost  seventeen, 
when,  in  her  lonely  musings,  she  was  conscious  of  these 
thoughts. 

She  was  often  alone  now,  for  the  old  association  be- 
tween her  and  her  mama  was  greatly  changed.  At  the 
time  of  her  father's  accident,  and  when  he  was  lying 
in  his  room  down-stairs,  Florence  had  first  observed 
that  Edith  avoided  her.  Wounded  and  shocked,  and 
yet  unable  to  reconcile  this  with  her  affection  when  they 
did  meet,  she  sought  her  in  her  own  room  at  night,  once 
more. 

"Mama,"  said  Florence,  stealing  softly  to  her  sida 
•  have  I  offended  you  ?  " 

Edith  answered,  "  No." 

"  I  must  have  done  something,"  said  Florence.     **  Tell 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  18 

me  what  it  is.  You  have  changed  your  manner  to  me, 
dear  mama.  I  cannot  say  how  instantly  I  feel  the  least 
change  ;  for  I  love  you  with  ray  whole  heart." 

"As  I  do  you,"  said  Edith.  *'  Ah,  Florence,  believe 
me  never  more  than   now  ! " 

"  Why  do  you  go  away  from  rae  so  often,  and  keep 
away  ?  "  asked  Florence.  "  And  why  do  you  sometimes 
look  so  strangely  on  me,  dear  mama  ?  You  do  so,  do 
you  not  ?  " 

Edith  signified  assent  with  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Why,"  returned  Florence  imploringly.  "  Tell  mo 
why,  that  I  may  know  how  to  please  you  better ;  and 
tell  rae  this  shall  not  be  so  any  more." 

"  My  Florence,"  answered  Edith,  taking  the  hand  that 
embraced  her  neck,  and  looking  into  the  eyes  that  looked 
into  hers  so  lovingly,  as  Florence  knelt  upon  the  ground 
before  her ;  "  why  it  is,  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  is  neither 
for  me  to  say,  nor  you  to  hear  ;  but  that  it  is,  and  that 
it  must  be,  I  know.     Should  I  do  it  if  I  did  not  ?  " 

"  Are  we  to  be  estranged,  mama  ?  "  asked  Florence, 
gazing  at  her  like  one  frightened. 

Edith's  silent   lips  formed  "  Yes." 

Florence  looked  at  her  with  increasing  fear  and  won- 
der, until  she  could  see  her  no  more  through  the  blind- 
ing tears  that  ran  down  her  face. 

"  Florence  !  my  life  !  "  said  Edith,  hurriedly,  "  listen 
to  me.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  this  grief.  Be  calmer. 
You  see  that  I  ara  composed,  and  is  it  nothing  to 
me  ?  " 

She  resuraed  her  steady  voice  and  manner  as  she 
said  the  latter  words,  and  added  presently : 

"Not  wholly  estranged.  Partially:  and  only  that,  in 
appearance,  Florence,  for  in  my  own  breast   I  ara   still 


14  DOMBEY    AND  SON. 

Che  same  to  you,  and  ever  will  be.     But  what  I  dc  is 
not  done  for  myself." 

"  Is  it  for  me,  mama  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  after  a  pause,  "  to  know 
what  it  is ;  why,  matters  little.  Dear  Florence,  it  ia 
better — it  is  necessary  —  it  must  be — that  oui  asso- 
ciation should  be  less  frequent.  The  confidence  ihcie 
has  been  between  us  must  be  broken  off." 

"  Wlien  ?"  cried  Florence.     "  Oh,  mama,  when  ?** 

«  Now,"  said  Edith. 

"  For  all  time  to  come  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  answered  Edith.  "  I  do  not  know 
that.  Nor  will  I  say  that  companionship  between  us,  is, 
at  the  best,  an  ill-assorted  and  unholy  union,  of  which  I 
miglit  have  known  no  good  could  come.  My  way  here 
has  been  through  paths  that  you  will  never  tread,  and 
my  way  henceforth  may  lie  —  God  knows  —  1  do  not 
see  it"  — 

Her  voice  died  away  into  silence ;  and  she  sat,  look- 
ing at  Floience,  and  almost  shrinking  from  her,  with  the 
same  strange  dread  and  wild  avoidance  that  Florence 
had  noticed  once  before.  The  sanie  dark  pride  and  rage 
succeeded,  sweeping  over  her  form  and  features  like  an 
angry  chord  across  the  strings  of  a  wild  harp.  But  no 
softness  or  humility  ensued  on  that.  She  did  not  lay 
her  head  down  now,  and  weep,  and  say  that  she  had  no 
hope  but  in  Florence.  She  held  it  up  as  if  she  were  a 
beautiful  Medusa,  looking  on  him,  face  to  face,  to  strike 
him  dead.  Yes,  and  she  would  have  done  it,  if  she  had 
oad  the  charm. 

"  Mama,"  said  Florence  anxiously,  "  there  is  a  change 
in  you,  in  more  than  wiiat  you  say  to  me,  w  hich  alarms 
«ne.     Let  me  stay  with  you  a  little." 


DOMBEI    AND  SON.  15 

"  No."  said  Edith,  "  no,  dearest.  I  am  best  left  alone 
low,  and  I  do  best  to  keep  apart  from  yon,  of  all  else. 
A-sk  me  no  questions,  but  believe  that  wliat  1  am  wiien 
[  seem  fickle  or  capricious  to  you,  I  am  not  of  mv  own 
will,  or  for  myself.  Believe,  though  we  are  stranger  to 
eacii  other  than  we  have  been,  that  I  am  unchanged  to 
you  within.  Forgive  me  for  having  ever  darkened  ycur 
dark  home  —  I  am  a  shadow  on  it,  I  know  well  —  and 
l(  t  us  never  speak  of  this  again." 

"  Mama,"  sobbed  Florence,  "  we  are  not  to  part?" 

"  We  do  this  that  we  may  not  part,"  said  Edith.  "  Ask 
no  more.  Go,  Florence  !  My  love  and  my  remorse  go 
with  you  !" 

She  embraced  her,  and  dismissed  her ;  and  as  Flor- 
ence passed  out  of  her  room,  Edith  looked  on  the  retir- 
ing figure,  as  if  her  good  angel  went  out  in  that  form, 
and  left  her  to  the  haughty  and  indignant  passions  that 
now  claimed  her  for  their  own,  and  set  their  seal  upon 
h(.T  brow. 

From  that  hour,  Florence  and  she  were,  as  they  had 
been,  no  more.  For  days  together,  they  would  seldom 
meet,  except  at  table,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  pi-es- 
ent.  Then  Edith,  imperious,  inflexible,  and  silent,  never 
looked  at  her.  Whenever  Mr.  Carker  was  of  the  party, 
as  he  often  was,  during  the  progress  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
recovery,  and  afterwards,  Edith  held  herself  moie  re- 
moved from  iier,  and  was  more  distant  towards  her,  than 
ut  other  times.  Yet  she  and  Florence  never  encoim- 
tered,  wlien  there  was  no  one  by,  but  she  wculd  embrace 
her  as  affectionately  as  of  old,  though  not  wiih  ilie  same 
relenting  of  her  proud  aspect ;  and  often,  when  she  had 
been  out  late,  she  would  steal  up  to  Florence's  room. 
as  she  had  been  used  to  do,  in  the  dark,  and  whispe; 


16  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

"^  Good-night,"  on  her  pillow.  When  unconscious,  in 
her  slumber,  of  such  visits,  Florence  would  sometimes 
awake,  as  from  a  dream  of  those  words,  softly  spoken, 
and  would  seem  to  feel  the  touch  of  lips  upon  her  face. 
Jiut  less  and  less  often  as  the  months  went  oii. 

And  now  the  void  in  Florence's  own  heart  began 
again,  indeed,  to  make  a  solitude  arc.und  her.  As  the 
image  of  the  father  whom  she  loved  had  insensibly  be- 
come a  mere  abstraction,  so  Edith,  following  the  fate  of 
all  the  rest  about  whom  her  affections  had  entwined 
themselves,  was  fleeting,  fading,  growing  paler  in  the 
distance,  every  day.  Little  by  little,  she  receded  from 
Florence,  like  the  retiring  ghost  of  what  she  had  been ; 
little  by  little,  the  chasm  between  them  widened  and 
seemed  deeper ;  little  by  little,  all  the  power  of  earnest- 
ness and  tenderness  she  had  shown,  was  frozen  up  in  the 
bold,  angry  hardihood  with  which  she  stood,  upon  the 
brink  of  a  deep  precipice  unseen  by  Florence,  daring 
to  look  down. 

There  was  but  one  consideration  to  set  against  the 
heavy  loss  of  Edith,  and  though  it  was  slight  comfort  to 
her  burdened  heart,  she  tried  to  think  it  some  relief. 
No  longer  divided  between  her  affection  and  duty  to  the 
two,  Florence  could  love  both  and  do  no  injustice  to 
cither.  As  shadows  of  her  fond  imagination,  she  could 
give  them  equal  place  in  her  own  bosom,  and  wrong 
ihem  with  no  doubts. 

So  she  tried  to  do.  At  times,  and  often  too,  wonder- 
ing speculations  on  the  cause  of  this  change  in  Edith, 
wouUI  obtrude  themselves  upon  her  mind  and  frighten 
her ;  but  in  the  calm  of  its  abandonment  once  more  to 
Mlent  grief  and  loneliness,  it  was  not  a  curious  mind. 
Florence  had  only  to  remember  that  her  star  of  promi.se 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  17 

was  clouded   in   the  general  gloom  that  hung  upon  iho. 
h<>use,  and  to  weep  and  be  resigned. 

Thus  living,  in  a  dream  wherein  the  overflowing  love 
of  her  young  heart  expended  itself  on  airy  fornos,  and 
In  a  real  world  where  she  had  experienced  little  but  the 
rolling  back  of  that  strong  tide  upon  itself,  Florenc 
grew  to  be  seventeen.  Timid  and  retiring  as  her  soli- 
tary life  had  made  her,  it  had  not  embittered  her  sweet 
temper,  or  her  earnest  nature.  A  child  in  innocent 
simplicity;  a  woman  in  her  modest  self-reliance,  and  her 
deep  intensity  of  feeling;  both  child  and  woman  seemed 
at  once  expressed  in  her  fair  face  and  fragile  delicacy 
of  shape,  and  gracefully  to  mingle  there ;  —  as  if  the 
ppring  should  be  unwilling  to  depart  when  summer  came, 
and  sought  to  blend  the  earlier  beauties  of  the  flowers 
with  their  bloom.  But  in  her  thrilling  voice,  in  her 
calm  eyes,  sometimes  in  a  strange  ethereal  light  that 
seemed  to  rest  upon  her  head,  and  always  in  a  certain 
pensiye  air  upon  her  beauty,  there  was  an  expression, 
euch  as  had  been  seen  in  the  dead  boy ;  and  the  coun- 
«iil  in  the  Servants'  Hall  whispered  so  among  themselves, 
and  shook  their  heads,  and  ate  and  drank  the  more,  in 
a  closer  bond  of  good-fellowship. 

This  observant  body  had  plenty  to  say  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dombey,  and  of  Mr.  Carker,  who  appeared  to  be 
a  mediator  between  them,  and  who  came  and  went  as 
if  lie  were  trying  to  make  peace,  but  never  could.  They 
all  deplored  the  uncomfortable  state  of  affairs,  and  all 
agreed  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  (whose  unpopularity  was  not 
to  be  surpassed)  had  some  hand  in  it ;  but,  upon  ihe 
whole,  it  was  agreeable  to  have  so  good  a  subject  for  a 
rallying  point,  and  they  made  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  eif 
joyed  themselves  very  much. 


18  DOMBEY  AND  SCN. 

The  general  visitors  who  came  to  the  hou^:e,  and  those 
among  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey  visitt.'d,  thought  it  a 
pretty  equal  match,  as  to  haughtiness,  at  all  events,  and 
thought  nothing  more  about  it.  The  young  lady  with 
the  back  did  not  appear  for  some  time  after  INIrs.  Skew- 
ton's  death  ;  observing  to  some  particular  friends,  with 
her  usual  engaging  little  scream,  that  she  couldn't  sepa- 
rate the  family  from  a  notion  of  tombstones,  and  horrora 
of  that  sort ;  but  when  she  did  come,  she  saw  nothing 
wrong,  except  Mr.  Dombey's  wearing  a  bunch  of  gold 
seals  to  his  watch,  which  shocked  her  very  much,  as  an 
exploded  superstition.  This  youthful  fascinator  consid- 
ered a  daughter-in-law  objectionable  in  principle  ;  other- 
wise, she  had  nothing  to  say  against  Florence,  but  that 
she  sadly  wanted  "  style  "  —  which  might  mean  back, 
perhaps.  Many,  who  only  came  to  the  house  on  state 
occasions,  hardly  knetv  who  Florence  was,  and  said,  go- 
ing home,  "  Indeed !  was  that  Miss  Dombey,  in  the 
corner  ?  Very  pretty,  but  a  little  delicate  and  thoughtful 
in  appearance !  " 

None  the  less  so,  certainly,  for  her  life  of  the  last  six 
months,  Florence  took  her  seat  at  the  dinner-table,  on 
the  day  before  the  second  anniversary  of  her  father's 
marriago  to  Edith  (Mrs.  Skewton  had  been  lying 
stricken  with  paralysis  when  the  first  came  round), 
with  an  uneasiness,  amounting  to  dread.  She  had  no 
other  warrant  for  it,  than  the  occasion,  (he  expression 
of  her  father's  face,  in  the  hasty  glance  she  caught  of 
jit,  and  the  presence  of  Mr.  Carker,  which,  always  un- 
pleasant to  her,  was  more  so  on  this  day,  than  she  had 
iver  felt  it  before. 

Edith  was  richly  dressed,  for  she  and  Mr.  Dombey 
were  engaged  in  the  evening  to  some  large    assemlily 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  19 

au(!  the  dinner-hour  that  day  was  late.  She  did  not 
uppi'ar  until  they  were  seated  at  table,  when  Mr.  Carker 
rose  and  led  her  to  her  chair.  Beautiful  and  lustrous 
as  shi  was,  there  was  that  in  her  face  and  air  which 
reeraed  tc  separate  her  hopelessly  from  Florence,  and 
from  eveiy  one,  for  evermore.  And  yet,  for  an  instant^ 
Florence  saw  a  beam  of  kindness  in  her  eyes,  when  they 
were  turned  on  her,  that  made  the  distance  to  which  she 
had  withdrawn  herself,  a  gr<'ater  cause  of  sorrow  and 
regret  than  ever. 

There  was  very  little  said  at  dinner.  Florence  heard 
her  father  speak  to  Mr.  Carker  sometimes  on  business 
matters,  and  heard  him  softly  reply,  but  she  paid  little 
attention  to  what  they  said,  and  only  wished  the  dinner 
at  an  end.  When  the  dessert  was  placed  upon  the  table, 
and  they  were  left  alone,  with  no  servant  in  attendance, 
Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  several  times  clearing  hia 
throat  in  a  manner  that  augured  no  good,  said  : 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  I  have 
instructed  the  house-keeper  that  there  will  be  some  com- 
pany  to  dinner  here  to-morrow." 

"  I  do  not  dine  at  home,"  she  answered. 

"  Not  a  large  party,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an 
indifferent  assumption  of  not  having  heard  her  ;  "  merely 
some  twelve  or  fourteen.  My  sister.  Major  Bagstock, 
and  some  others  whom  you   know  but  slightly." 

"  I  do  not  dine  at  home,"  she  i-epeated. 

"  However  doubtful  reason  I  may  have,  Mrs.  Dom- 
l)fy,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  still  going  majestically  on,  as  if 
she  had  not  spoken,  "  to  hold  the  occasion  in  very  pleas- 
ant  remembrance  just  now,  there  are  appearances  in 
ihese  things  which  must  be  maintained  before  the  world, 
tf  you  have  no  respect  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Dombey  "  — 


20  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  I  have  none,"  she  said. 

"  Madam,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  striking  his  hand  upon 
the  table,  '*  hear  me,  if  you  please.  I  say,  if  you  have 
no  respect  for  yourself"  — 

"  And  /  say  I  have  none,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her ;  but  the  face  she  showed  him  1 1 
return  would  not  have  changed,  if  death  itself  Lad 
looked. 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  more  quietly  tc 
that  gentleman,  "  as  you  have  been  my  medium  of  com- 
munication with  Mrs.  Dombey  on  former  occasions,  and 
as  I  choose  to  preserve  the  decencies  of  life,  so  far  as  I 
am  individually  concerned,  I  will  trouble  you  to  have  the 
goodness  to  inform  Mrs.  Dombey  that  if  she  has  no 
respect  for  herself,  I  have  some  respect  for  myself, 
and  therefore  insist  on  my  arrangements  for  to-mor- 
row." 

"  Tell  your  sovereign  master,  sir,"  said  Edith,  "  that  I 
will  take  leave  to  speak  to  him  on  this  subject  by-and-by, 
and  that  T  will  speak  to  him  alone." 

"  Mr.  Carker,  madam,"  said  her  husband,  "  being  in 
possession  of  the  reason  which  obliges  me  to  refuse  you 
that  privilege,  shall  be  absolved  from  the  delivery  of  any 
such  message."  He  saw  her  eyes  move,  while  he  spoke, 
and  followed  them  with  his  own. 

"  Your  daughter  is  present,  sir,"  said  Edith, 

"  My  daughter  will  remain  present,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Florence,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again,  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  trembling. 

"  My  daughter,  madam  "  —  began  Mr.  Dombey.  I 

But  Edith  stopped  him,  in  a  voice  which,  altho?igh  not 
raised  in  the  least,  was  so  clear,  emphatic,  and  distinct, 
that  it  might  have  been  heard  in  a  whirVind. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  21 

"  I  tell  jou  I  will  speak  to  you  alone,"  she  said.  '  If 
jrou  are  not  mad,  heed  what  I  say," 

"  I  have  authority  to  speak  to  you,  madam,"  returned 
her  husband,  "  when  and  where  I  please ;  and  it  is  my 
pleasui-e  to  speak  here  and  now." 

She  rose  up  as  if  to  leave  the  room  ;  but  sat  down 
again,  and  looking  at  him  with  all  outward  composure, 
said,  in  the  same  voice : 

"You  shall!" 

"  I  must  tell  you  first,  that  there  is  a  threatening 
appearance  in  your  manner,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  which  does  not  become  you." 

She  laughed.  The  shaken  diamonds  in  her  hair 
started  and  trembled.  There  are  fables  of  precious 
stones  that  would  turn  pale,  their  wearer  being  in  dan- 
ger. Had  these  been  such,  their  imprisoned  rays  of 
light  would  have  taken  flight  that  moment,  and  they 
would  have  been  as  dull  as  lead. 

Carker  listened  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"  As  to  my  daughter,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  re- 
Buraiiig  the  thread  of  his  discourse,  "  it  is  by  no  means 
inconsistent  with  her  duty  to  me,  that  she  should  know 
what  conduct  to  avoid.  At  present  you  are  a  very 
strong  example  to  her  of  this  kind,  and  I  hope  she  may 
profit  by  it." 

"  I  would  not  stop  you  now,"  returned  his  wife,  im 
movable  in  sye,  and  voice,  and  attitude  ;  "  I  would  not 
rise  and  gc  away,  and  save  you  the  utterance  of  one 
word,  if  the  room  were  burning." 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  head,  as  if  in  a  sarcastic 
acknowledgment  of  the  attention,  and  resumed.  But 
not  with  so  much  self-possession  as  before  ;  for  Edith's 
quick  uneasiness  in  reference  to  Florence,  and  Edilh'« 


22  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Indifference  to  him  and  his  censure,  chafed  and  galled 
him  hke  a  stiffening  wound. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  he,  "  it  may  not  be  inconsistent 
with  my  daughter's  improvement  to  know  how  very 
much  to  be  lamented,  and  how  necessary  to  be  corrected, 
a  stubborn  disposition  is,  especially  when  it  is  indulged 
in  —  unthankf'ully  indulged  in,  I  will  add  —  after  the 
gratification  of  ambition  and  interest.  Both  of  which,  1 
believe,  had  some  share  in  inducing  you  to  occupy  your 
present  station  at  this  board." 

"  No  !  I  would  not  rise,  and  go  away,  and  save  you 
the  utterance  of  one  word,"  she  repeated,  exactly  as  be- 
fore, "  if  the  room  were  burning." 

"  It  may  be  natural  enough,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  pur- 
sued, "  that  30U  should  be  uneasy  in  the  presence  of  any 
auditors  of  these  disagreeable  truths;  though  why"  — 
he  could  not  hide  his  real  feelings  here,  or  keep  hts  eyes 
from  glancing  gloomily  at  Florence  —  "why  any  one 
can  give  them  greater  force  and  point  than  myself, 
whom  they  so  nearly  concern,  I  do  not  pretend  to  un- 
derstand. It  may  be  natural  enough  that  you  should 
object  to  hear,  in  anybody's  presence,  that  there  is  a 
rebellious  principle  within  you  which  you  cannot  curb 
too  soon  ;  which  you  must  curb,  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  and 
which,  I  regret  to  say,  I  remember  to  have  seen  mani- 
fested—  with  some  doubt  and  displeasure,  on  more  than 
one  occasion  before  our  marriage  —  towards  your  de- 
ceased mother.  But  you  have  the  remedy  in  your  own 
hands.  I  by  no  means  forgot,  when  I  began,  that  my 
daughter  was  present,  Mrs.  Dombey.  I  beg  you  will 
not  forget  to-morrow,  that  there  are  several  persons 
present ;  and  that,  with  some  regard  to  appearances,  you 
"will  receive  your  company  in  a  becoming  manner." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  2S 

"  So  \i  's  not  enough,"  said  Edith,  "  that  you  know 
what  has  passed  between  yourself  and  me ;  it  is  not 
enough  tliat  you  can  look  here,"  pointing  at  Carker,  who 
Btill  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  "and  be  reminded 
of  the  affronts  you  have  put  upon  me ;  it  is  not  enouglj 
that  you  can  look  here,"  pointing  to  Florence  with  a 
band  that  slightly  trembled  for  the  first  and  only  timr, 
"  and  think  of  what  you  have  done,  and  of  the  ingenious 
agony,  daily,  hourly,  constant,  you  have  made  me  feel  in 
doing  it;  it  is  not  enough  that  this  day,  of  all  others  in 
the  year,  is  memorable  to  me  for  a  struggle  (well-de- 
Berved,  but  not  conceivable  by  such  as  you)  in  which  I 
wish  I  had  died  !  You  add  to  all  this,  do  you,  the  last 
crowning  meanness  of  making  her  a  witness  of  the  depth 
to  which  I  have  fallen  ;  when  you  know  that  you  have 
made  me  sacrifice  to  her  peace,  the  only  gentle  feeling 
and  interest  of  my  life  ;  when  you  know  that  for  her 
sake,  I  would  now  if  I  could  —  but  I  cannot,  my  soul 
recoils  from  you  too  much  —  submit  myself  wholly  to 
your  will,  and  be  the  meekest  vassal  that  you  have  !  " 

This  was  not  the  way  to  minister  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
greatness.  The  old  feeling  was  roused  by  what  she 
said,  into  a  stronger  and  fiercer  existence  than  it  had 
ever  hdd.  Again,  his  neglected  child,  at  this  rough 
passage  of  his  life,  put  forth  by  even  this  rebellious 
woman,  as  powerful  where  he  was  powerless,  and  every- 
thing where  he  was  nothing ! 

He  turned  on  Florence,  as  if  it  were  she  who  had 
spoken,  and  bade  her  leave  the  room.  Florence  with 
her  covered  face  obeyed,  trembling  and  weeping  as  she 
went. 

"  I  understand,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  vvitli  an 
RDgry   Hush   of  triumph,  "  the  spirit   of  opposition  th-^l 


24  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

turned  your  affections  in  that  channel,  but  they  have 
been  met,  Mrs.  Donabey ;  they  have  been  met,  and 
turned  back  ! '' 

"  The  worse  for  you  !  "  she  answered,  with  her  voice 
and  niiinner  still  unchanged.  "  Ay  ! "  for  he  turned 
Bharjilj  when  she  said  so,  "what  is  the  worse  for  me,  in 
twenty  million  times  the  worse  for  you.  Heed  that,  if 
you  lieed  nothing  else." 

The  arch  of  diamonds  spanning  her  dark  hair,  flashed 
and  glittered  like  a  starry  bridge.  There  was  no  warn- 
ing in  them,  or  they  would  have  turned  as  dull  and  dim 
as  tarnished  honor.  Carker  still  sat  and  listened,  with 
his  eyes  cast  down. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  as  much 
as  he  could  of  his  arrogant  composure,  "you  will  not 
conciliate  me,  or  turn  me  from  any  purpose,  by  this 
course  of  conduct." 

"  It  is  the  only  true  although  it  is  a  faint  expression 
of  what  is  within  me,"  she  replied.  "  But  if  I  thought 
it  would  conciliate  you,  I  would  repress  it,  if  it  were 
repressible  by  any  human  effort.  I  will  do  nothing  that 
you  ask." 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  ask,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  ob- 
served ;  "  I  direct." 

"  I  will  hold  no  place  in  your  house  to-morrow,  or  on 
any  recurrence  of  to-morrow.  I  will  be  exhibited  to  no 
one,  as  the  refractory  slave  you  purchased,  such  a  time. 
If  I  kept  ray  marriage-day,  I  would  keep  it  as  a  day  of 
shame.  Self-respect !  appearances  before  the  world 
what  are  these  to  me  ?  You  have  done  all  you  can  to 
make  them  nothing  to  me,  and  they  are  nothing." 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  speaking  with  knitted 
brows,  and  after  a  moment's  consideration,  '*  Mrs.  Dom- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  30 

bey  is  so  foigetful  of  herself  and  me  in  all  this,  and 
places  me  in  a  position  so  unsuited  to  my  chanujter,  that 
I  must  bring  this  state  of  matters  to  a  clo.^e." 

"  Release  me,  then,"  said  Edith  immovable  in  voice, 
in  look,  and  bearinsj,  as  she  had  been  throughout,  "  ft-oin 
he  chain  by  which  I  am  bound.     Let  me  go." 

.**  Madam  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dombey. 

**  Loose  me.     Set  me  free  !  " 

*'  Madam  ?  "  he  repeated,  "  Mrs.  Dombey  ?  " 

**  Tell  him,"  said  Edith,  addressing  her  proud  face  to 
Carker,  ''  tliat  I  wish  for  a  separation  between  us.  That 
there  had  better  be  one.  That  I  recommend  it  to  him. 
Tell  him  it  may  take  place  on  his  own  terms  —  his 
wealth  is  nothing  to  me  —  but  that  it  cannot  be  too 
Boon." 

"  Good  Heaven,  Mrs.  Dombey  ! "  said  her  husband, 
witli  supreme  amazement,  "  do  you  imagine  it  possible 
that  I  could  ever  listen  to  such  a  proposition  ?  Do  you 
know  who  I  am,  madam  ?  Do  you  know  what  I  rep- 
resent ?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Dombey  and  Son  ? 
Peoplt  to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey  —  Mr.  Dombey  !  — 
was  separated  from  his  wife  !  Common  people  to  talk 
of  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  domestic  affairs  !  Do  you  se- 
riously think,  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  I  would  permit  my 
name  to  be  handed  about  in  such  connection  ?  Pooh, 
pooh,  madam  !  Fie  for  shame  !  You're  absurd."  Mr. 
Dombey  absolutely  laughed. 

But  not  as  she  did.  She  had  better  have  been  dead 
than  laugh  as  she  did,  in  reply,  with  her  intent  look 
Qxed  upon  him.  He  had  better  have  been  dead,  than 
sitting  there,  in  his  magnificence,  to  hear  her. 

''  No,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  resumed,  "  no,  madam. 
There  is  no  possibility  of  separation   between   you  and 


26  DOSIBEY  AND  SON. 

me,  and  therefore  I  the  more  advise  you  to  be  awakened 
to  a  sense  of  duty.  And,  Carker,  as  I  was  about  to  say 
to  you  "  — 

Mr.  Carker,  who  had  sat  and  listened  all  this  time, 
now  raised  his  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  bright  un- 
asual  li^ht. 

—  "As  I  was  about  to  say  to  you,"  resumed  Mr. 
l>omb?y,  "  I  must  beg  you,  now  that  matters  have  come 
to  this,  to  inform  Mrs.  Dorabey,  that  it  is  not  the  rule 
of  my  life  to  allow  myself  to  be  thwarted  by  anybody  — 
anybody,  Carker  —  or  to  suffer  anybody  to  be  paraded 
as  a  stronger  motive  for  obedience  in  those  who  owe 
obedience  to  me  than  I  am  myself.  The  mention  that 
has  been  made  of  ray  daughter,  and  the  use  that  is 
made  of  my  daughter,  in  opposition  to  me,  are  unnatu- 
ral. Whether  my  daughter  is  in  actual  concert  with 
Mrs.  Dombey,  I  do  not  know,  and  do  not  care ;  but 
after  what  Mrs.  Dombey  has  said  to-day,  and  my 
daughter  has  heard  to-day,  I  beg  you  to  make  known 
to  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  if  she  continues  to  make  this  house 
the  scene  of  contention  it  has  become,  I  shall  consider 
my  daughter  responsible  in  some  degree,  on  that  lady'a 
own  avowal,  and  shall  visit  her  with  my  severe  displeas- 
ure. Mrs.  Dombey  has  asked  'whether  it  is  not  enough,' 
that  she  had  done  this  and  that.  You  will  please  to 
answer  no,  it  is  not  enough." 

*'  A  moment ! "  cried  Carker,  interposing,  "  permit  me ! 
painful  as  my  position  is,  at  the  best,  and  unusually  pain- 
ful in  seeming  to  entertain  q  different  opinion  from  you," 
addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  must  ask,  had  you  not  be^ 
ter  reconsider  the  question  of  a  separation.  I  know 
how  incompatible  it  appears  with  your  high  public  pc 
sition.  and  I  know  how  determined  you  are  when  you 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  27 

gi^e  Mrs,  Dombey  to  understand"  —  the  light  in  his 
eyes  fell  upon  her  as  he  separated  his  words  each  from 
each,  with  the  distinctness  of  so  many  bells  —  "that 
nothing  but  death  can  ever  part  you.  Nothing  elso. 
But  when  you  consider  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  by  living  In 
this  house,  and  making  it,  as  you  have  said,  a  scene  of 
contention,  not  only  has  her  part  in  that  contention,  but 
compromises  Miss  Dombey  every  day  (for  I  know  how 
determined  you  are),  will  you  not  relieve  her  from  a 
continual  irritation  of  spirit,  and  a  continual  sense  of 
being  unjust  to  another,  almost  intolerable  ?  Does  thi» 
not  seem  like  —  I  do  not  say  it  is  —  sacrifichig  Mrs. 
Dombey  to  the  preservation  of  your  preeminent  and 
unassailable  position  ?  " 

Again  the  light  in  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  as  she  stood 
looking  at  her  husband  :  now  with  an  extraordinary  and 
awful  smile  upon   her  face. 

•'  Carker,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  supercilious 
frown,  and  in  a  tone  that  was  intended  to  be  final. 
"  you  mistake  your  position  in  offering  advice  to  me 
on  such  a  point,  and  you  mistake  me  (I  am  surprised 
to  find)  in  the  character  of  your  advice.  I  have  no 
more  to  say." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Carker,  with  an  unusual  and  inde- 
finable taunt  in  his  air,  ^'^  you  mistook  my  position,  v/hen 
you  honored  me  with  the  negotiations  in  which  I  have 
been  engaged  here"  —  with  a  motion  of  his  hand  towards 
Mrs.  Dombey. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all,"  returned  the  other  haugh- 
tily.    "  You  were  employed  "  — 

"  Being  an  inferior  person,  for  the  humiliation  of  Mra, 
Dombey.  I  forgot.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  expressly  under 
stood  !  "  said   Carker.     "  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " 


28  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

As  he  bunt  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an  air  of 
deference  that  accorded  ill  with  his  words,  though  they 
were  humbly  spoken,  he  moved  it  round  towards  her, 
and  kept  his  watching  eyes  that  way. 

She  had  better  have  turned  hideous  and  dropped  dead, 
than  have  stood  up  with  such  a  smile  upon  her  face,  in 
such  a  fallen  spirit's  majesty  of  scorn  and  beauty.  She 
lifted  her  hand  to  the  tiara  of  bright  jewels  radiant  on 
her  head,  and,  plucking  it  off  with  a  force  that  dragged 
and  strained  her  rich  black  hair  with  heedless  cruelty, 
and  brought  it  tumbling  wildly  on  her  shoulders,  cast 
the  gems  upon  the  ground.  From  each  arm,  she  un- 
clasped a  diamond  bracelet,  flung  it  down,  and  trod 
upon  the  glittering  heap.  Without  a  word,  without  a 
shadow  on  the  fire  of  her  bright  eye,  without  abatement 
of  her  awful  smile,  she  looked  on  Mr.  Dombey  to  the 
last,  in  moving  to  the  door ;  and  left  him. 

Florence  had  heard  enough  before  quitting  the  room, 
to  know  that  Edith  loved  her  yet ;  that  she  had  suffered 
for  her  sake  ;  and  that  she  had  kept  her  sacrifices  quiet, 
lest  they  should  trouble  her  peace.  She  did  not  want 
to  speak  to  her  of  this  —  she  could  not,  remembering  to 
wliom  she  was  opposed  —  but  she  wished,  in  one  silent 
and  affectionate  embrace,  to  assure  her  that  she  felt  it 
all,  and  thanked  her. 

Her  father  went  out  alone,  that  evening,  and  Florence 
isaoiiij  from  her  own  chamber  soon  afterwards,  went 
aboui  the  house  in  search  of  Edith,  but  unavailingly. 
She  v^s  in  her  own  roqms,  where  Florence  had  long 
ceased  «o  go,  and  did  not  dare  to  venture  now,  lest  she 
should  unconsciously  engender  new  trouble.  Still  Flor- 
ence, hv,j>itig  to  meet  her  before  going  to  bed,  clmnged 
from  rotrm   to   room,    ana  wandered  through  the  house 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  29 

BO  splendid  and  so  dreary,  without  remaining  any- 
where. 

She  was  crossing  a  gallery  of  communication  that 
opened  at  some  little  distance  on  the  staircase,  and  was 
only  lighted  on  great  occasions,  when  she  saw,  threngh 
the  opening,  which  was  an  arch,  the  figure  of  a  man 
coming  down  some  few  stairs  opposite.  Instinctively 
apprehensive  of  her  father,  whom  she  supposed  it  was, 
she  stopped,  in  the  dark,  gazing  through  the  arch  into 
the  light.  But  it  was  Mr.  Carker  coming  down  alone, 
and  looking  over  the  railing  into  the  hall.  No  bell  was 
rung  to  announce  his  departure,  and  no  servant  was  in 
attendance.  He  went  down  quietly,  opened  the  door 
for  himself,  glided  out,  and  shut  it  softly  after  him. 

Her  invincible  repugnance  to  this  man,  and  perhaps 
the  stealthy  act  of  watching  any  one,  which,  even  under 
such  innocent  circumstances,  is  in  a  manner  guilty  and 
oppressive,  made  Florence  shake  from  head  to  foot.  Her 
blood  seemed  to  run  cold.  As  soon  as  she  could  —  for 
at  first  she  felt  an  insurmountable  dread  of  moving  — 
she  went  quickly  to  her  own  room  and  locked  her  door; 
but  even  then,  shut  in  with  her  dog  beside  her,  felt  a 
chill  sensation  of  horror,  as  if  there  were  danger  brood- 
ing somewhere  near  her. 

It  invaded  her  dreams  and  disturbed  the  whole  night. 
Rising  in  the  morning,  unrefreshed,  and  with  a  heavy 
recollection  of  the  domestic  un happiness  of  the  preced- 
ing day,  she  sought  Edith  again,  in  all  the  rooms,  and 
did  so,  from  time  to  time,  all  the  morning.  But  she 
remained  in  her  own  chamber,  and  Florence  saw  noth- 
ing of  her.  Learning,  however,  that  the  projected  din- 
ner at  home  was  put  off,  Florence  thought  it  likely  that 
ihe  would  go  out  in  the  evenirg^  *n  fulfil  the  engagement 


80  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

she  had  spoken  of:  and  resolved  to  try  and  meet  her, 
then,  upon  the  stah-case. 

When  the  evening  had  set  in,  she  heard,  from  the 
room  in  which   she  sat  on  purpose,  a  footstep  on   th< 
Btairs    that   she  thought  to  be  Edith's.     Hurrying  out 
and  up  towards  her  room,  Florence  met  her  immediately 
coming  down  alone. 

What  was  Florence's  affright  and  wonder  when,  a« 
sight  of  her,  with  her  tearful  face,  and  outstretched 
arms,  Edith  recoiled  and  shrieked ! 

"  Don't  come  near  me  !  "  she  cried.  "  Keep  away  I 
Let  me  go  by  !  " 

"  Mama  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Don't  call  me  by  that  name !     Don't  speak  to  me 
Don't   look    at   me  !  —  Florence  !  "  shrinking   back,  as 
Florence  moved  a  step  towards  her,  "  don't  touch  me ! " 

As  Florence  stood  transfixed  before  the  haggard  face 
and  staring  eyes,  she  noted,  as  in  a  dream,  that  Edith 
spread  her  hands  over  them,  and,  shuddering  through 
all  her  form,  and  crouching  down  against  tlie  wall, 
crawled  by  her  like  some  lower  animal,  sprang  up,  and 
fled  away. 

Florence  dropped  upon  the  stairs  in  a  swoon  ;  and 
was  found  there  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  she  supposed.  She 
knew  nothing  more,  until  she  found  herself  lying  on 
her  own  bed,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  some  servants 
standing  round  her. 

"  Where  is  mama  ?  "  was  her  first  question. 

"  Gone  out  to  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 
;   «  And  papa  ?  " 

**  Mr.  Dombey's  in  his  own  room,  Miss  Dombey,"  said 
Mis.  Pipchin,  "  and  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  is  to  take 
off  your  things  and  go  to  bed  this  minute."     This  was 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  Si 

Jhe  sagacious  woman's  remedy  for  all  complaints,  partio 
ularlj  lowness  of  spirits,  and  inability  to  sleep;  for  which 
offences  many  young  victims  in  the  days  of  the  Brighton 
Castlii  had  been  committed  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

Without  promising  obedience,  but  on  the  plea  of  desir- 
ing to  be  very  quiet,  Florence  disengaged  herself,  as  soon 
as  she  could,  from  the  ministration  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  and 
her  attendants.  Left  alone,  she  thought  of  what  had 
happened  on  the  staircase,  at  first  in  doubt  of  its  reality; 
then  with  tears ;  then  with  an  indescribable  and  terrible 
alarm,  like  that  she  had  felt  the  night  before. 

She  determined  not  to  go  to  bed  until  P^dith  returned, 
and  if  she  could  not  speak  to  her,  at  least  to  be  sure  that 
she  was  safe  at  home.  What  indistinct  and  shadowy 
dread  moved  Florence  to  this  resolution,  she  did  not 
know,  and  did  not  dare  to  think.  She  only  knew  that 
until  Edith  came  back,  there  was  no  repose  for  her 
aching  head  or  throbbing  heart. 

The  evening  deepened  into  night ;  midnight  came  ;  no 
Edith. 

Florence  could  not  read,  or  rest  a  moment.  She 
paced  her  own  room,  opened  the  door  and  paced  the 
Btaircase-gallery  outside,  looked  out  of  window  on  the 
night,  listened  to  the  wind  blowing  and  the  rain  fall- 
ing, sat  down  and  watched  the  faces  in  the  fire,  got 
up  and  watched  the  moon  flying  like  a  storm-driven 
ship  through  the  sea  of  clouds. 

All  the  house  was  gone  to  bed,  except  two  servants 
who  were  waiting  tlie  return  of  their  mistress,  down- 
stairs. 

One  o'clock.  The  carriages  that  rumbled  in  the  dis- 
tance, turned  away,  or  stopped  short,  or  went  past ;  the 


82  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Bilence  gradually  deepened,  and  was  morf»  and  mor» 
rarely  broken,  save  by  a  rush  of  wind  or  sweep  of  rain. 
Two  o'clock.     No  Edith. 

Florence,  more  agitated,  paced  her  room ;  and  pacet. 
the  gallery  outside ;  and  looked  out  at  the  night,  blurred 
and  wavy  with  the  rain-drops  on  the  glass,  and  the  tears 
in  her  own  eyes ;  and  looked  up  at  the  hurry  in  the  sky 
BO  different  from  the  repose  below,  and  yet  so  tranquil 
and  solitary.  Three  o'clock  !  There  was  a  terror  in 
every  ash  that  dropped  out  of  the  fire.  No  Edith 
yet. 

More  and  more  agitated,  Florence  paced  her  room, 
and  paced  the  gallery,  and  looked  out  at  the  moon  with  a 
new  fancy  of  her  likeness  to  a  pale  fugitive  hurrying 
away  and  hiding  her  guilty  face.  Four  struck  !  Five  I 
No  Edith  yet. 

But  now  there  was  some  cautious  stir  in  the  house ; 
and  Florence  found  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  been  awak- 
ened by  one  of  those  who  sat  up,  had  risen  and  had  gone 
down  to  her  fatiier's  door.  Stealing  lower  down  the 
stairs  and  observing  what  passed,  she  saw  her  fether 
come  out  in  his  raoming-gown,  and  start  when  he  was 
told  his  wife  had  not  come  home.  He  despatched  a  raes- 
fi<»nger  to  tim  stables  to  inquire  whether  the  coachman 
was  there ;  and  while  the  man  was  gone,  dressed  him- 
self very  hurriedly. 

Tlie  man  came  back,  in  great  haste,  bringing  tho 
coachman  with  him,  who  said  he  had  been  at  home 
and  in  bed  since  ten  o'clock.  He  had  driven  his  mis- 
tress to  her  old  house  in  Brook-street,  where  she  had 
been  met  by  Mr.  Carker  — 

Florence  stood  upon  the  very  spot  where  she  had  seen 
him  coming  down.     Again  she  shivered  with  the  name- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3? 

less  terror  of  that  sight,  and  had  hardly  steadiness  enough 
to  hear  and  understand  what  followed. 

—  Wlio  had  told  him,  the  man  went  on  to  say,  that  his 
mistress  would  not  want  the  cai'riage  to  go  home  in ;  and 
had  dismissed  him. 

She  saw  her  father  turn  white  in  the  face,  and  heard 
him  ask  in  a  quick,  trembling  voice,  for  Mrs.  Dombey'a 
maid.  The  whole  house  was  roused;  for  she  was  there 
in  a  moment,  very  pale  too,  and  speaking  incoherently. 

She  said  she  had  dressed  her  mistress  early  —  full  two 
hours  before  she  went  out — and  had  been  told,  as  she 
often  was,  that  she  would  not  be  wanted  at  night.  She 
had  just  come  from  her  mistress's  rooms,  but  — * 

"  But  what !  what  was  it?"  Florence  heard  her  father 
demand  like  a  madman. 

"  But  the  inner  dressing-room  was  locked,  and  the  key 
gone." 

Her  father  seized  a  candle  that  was  flaming  on  the 
ground  —  some  one  had  put  it  down  there,  and  foigotten 
it — and  came  running  up-stairs  with  such  fury,  that 
Florence,  in  her  fear,  had  hardly  time  to  fly  before  him. 
She  heard  him  striking  in  the  door,  as  she  ran  on,  with 
her  hands  wildly  spread,  and  her  hair  streaming,  and  her 
face  like  a  distracted  person's,  back  to  her  own  room. 

When  the  door  yielded,  and  he  rushed  in,  what  did  he 
Bee  there  ?  No  one  knew.  But  thrown  down  in  a  costly 
mass  upon  the  ground,  was  every  ornament  she  had  had, 
since  she  had  been  his  wife ;  every  dress  she  had  worn ; 
jind  everything  she  had  possessed.  This  was  the  room 
m  which  he  had  seen,  in  yonder  mirror,  the  proud  face 
discard  him.  This  was  the  room  in  which  he  had  wcji- 
ilered,  idly,  liovi  these  things  would  look  when  he  should 
<ee  them  next  I 

VOL.    IV.  8 


84  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Heaping  them  back  into  the  drawers,  and  locking  them 
up  in  a  rage  of  haste,  he  saw  some  papers  on  the  table. 
The  deed  of  settlement  he  had  executed  on  their  mar- 
riage, and  a  letter.  He  read  that  she  was  gone.  He 
read  that  he  was  dishonored.  He  read  that  she  had  fled* 
upon  her  shameful  wedding-day,  with  the  man  whom  he 
had  chosen  for  her  humiliation  ;  and  he  tore  out  of  the 
room,  and  out  of  the  house,  with  a  frantic  idea  of  finding 
her  yet,  at  the  place  to  which  she  had  been  taken,  and 
beating  all  trace  of  beauty  out  of  the  triumphant  face 
with  his  bare  hand. 

Florence,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  put  on  a  shawl 
Rnd  bonnet,  in  a  dream  of  running  through  the  streets 
until  she  found  Edith,  and  then  clasping  her  in  her  arms, 
to  save  and  bring  her  back.  But  when  she  hurried  out 
upon  the  staircase,  and  saw  the  frightened  servants  going 
up  and  down  with"  lights,  and  whispering  together,  and 
falling  away  fiom  her  father  as  he  passed  down,  she 
awoke  to  a  sense  of  her  own  powerlessness  ;  and  hiding 
in  one  of  the  great  rooms  that  had  been  made  gorgeous 
for  this,  felt  as  if  her  heart  would  burst  with  grief. 

Compassion  for  her  father  was  the  first  distinct  emotion 
that  made  head  against  the  flood  of  sorrow  which  over- 
whelmed her.  Her  constant  nature  turned  to  him  in  his 
distress,  as  fervently  and  faithfully,  as  if,  in  his  pros- 
perity, he  had  been  the  embodiment  of  that  idea  which 
had  gradually  become  so  faint  and  dim.  Although  she 
did  not  know,  otherwise  than  through  the  suggestions 
of  a  shapeless  fear,  the  full  extent  of  his  calamity,  he 
itood  before  her  wronged  and  deserted ;  and  again  her 
yearning  love  impelled  her  to  his  side. 

He  was  not  long  away :  for  Florence  was  yet  weeping 
Ui  the  great  room  and  nourishing  these   thoughts,  when 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  35 

ihe  heard  liira  come  back.  He  ordered  tli?  servants  to 
let  about  their  ordinary  occupations,  and  went  into  his 
own  apartment,  where  he  trod  so  heavily  that  she  could 
hear  him  walking  up  and  down  from  end  (o  end.  '"d 

Yielding,  at  once,  to  the  impulse  of  her  alFection, 
timid  at  all  other  times,  but  bold  in  its  truth  to  him  ifi 
his  adversity,  and  undaunted  by  past  repulse,  Florence 
dressed  as  she  was,  hurried  down-stairs.  As  she  set  her 
light  foot  in  the  hall,  he  came  out  of  his  room.  She 
hastened  towards  him  unchecked,  with  hei"  arms  stretched 
out,  and  crying  "  Oh  dear,  dear  papa  ! "  as  if  she  would 
liave  clasped  iiim  round  the  neck. 

And  so  she  would  have  done.  But  in  his  frenzy,  he 
lifted  up  his  cruel  arm,  and  struck  her,  crosswise,  with 
that  heaviness,  that  she  tottered  on  the  marble  floor ;  and 
as  he  dealt  the  blow,  he  told  her  what  Edith  was,  and 
bade  her  follow  her,  since  they  had  always  been  in 
league. 

She  did  not  sink  down  at  his  feet ;  she  did  not  shut 
out  the  sight  of  him  with  her  trembling  hands ;  she  did 
not  weep  :  she  did  not  utter  one  word  of  reproach.  But 
she  looked  at  him,  and  a  cry  of  desolation  issued  from 
her  heart.  For  as  she  looked,  she  saw  him  murdering 
that  fond  idea  to  which  she  had  held  in  spite  of  hira. 
She  saw  his  cruelty,  neglect,  and  hatred  dominant 
above  it,  and  stamping  it  down.  She  saw  she  had 
no  father  upon  earth,  and  ran  out,  orphaned,  from  hia 
house. 

Rjin  out  of  his  house.  A  moment,  and  her  hand  waa 
on  the  lock,  the  cry  was  on  her  lips,  his  face  was  there, 
Qiade  paler  by  the  yellow  candles  hastily  put  down  and 
glittering  away,  and  by  the  daylight  coming  in  above  the 
door.     Another  moment,  and  the  close  darkness  of  the 


86  DOMBEY  A]!n)  SON. 

Bhut-up  house  (forgotten  to  be  opened,  though  it  was 
long  since  day)  yielded  to  the  unexpected  glare  and 
freedom  of  the  morning;  and  Florence,  with  her  head 
bent  down  to  hide  her  agony  of  tears,  was  in  the 
■tr«et8 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  81 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   FLORENCE. 


In  the  wildness  of  her  sorrow,  shame,  and  terror,  the 
Torloni  girl  hurried  through  the  sunshine  of  a  bright 
morning,  as  if  it  were  the  darkness  of  a  winter  nighL 
Wringing  her  hands  and  weeping  bitterly,  insensible  to 
everything  but  the  deep  wound  in  her  breast,  stunned  by 
the  loss  of  all  she  loved,  left  like  the  sole  survivor  on  a 
lonely  shore  from  the  wreck  of  a  great  vessel,  she  fled 
without  a  thought,  without  a  hope,  without  a  purpose, 
but  to  fly  somewhere  —  anywhere. 

The  cheerful  vista  of  the  long  street,  burnished  by  the 
morning  light,  the  sight  of  the  blue  sky  and  airy  clouds, 
the  vigorous  freshness  of  the  day,  so  flushed  and  rosy  in 
its  conquest  of  the  night,  awakened  no  responsive  feel- 
ings in  her  so  hurt  bosom.  Somewhere,  anywhere,  to 
hide  her  head  !  somewhere,  anywhere,  for  refuge,  never 
more  to  look  upon  the  place  from  which  she  fled  ! 

But  there  were  people  going  to  and  fro  ;  there  were 
opening  shops,  and  servants  at  the  doors  of  houses  ;  there 
was  the  rising  clash  and  roar  of  the  day's  struggle.  Floiv 
vnc€  saw  surprise  and  curiosity  in  the  faces  flitting  past 
her;  saw  long  shadows  coming  back  upon  the  pavement; 
and  heard  voices  that  were  strange  to  her  asking  her 
where  she  went,  and  what  the  matter  was ;  and  though 
^ese  frightened  her  the  more  at  first,  and  made  her 


S8  nOMBEY  AND  SON. 

hurry  on  the  fiister,  they  did  her  the  good  service  of 
recalling  her  in  some  degree  to  herself,  and  reminding 
her  of  the  necessity  of  greater  composure. 

Where  to  go  ?  Still  somewhere,  anywhere !  still  going 
on  ;  but  where!  She  thought  of  the  only  other  time  sha 
had  been  lost  in  the  wide  wilderness  of  London  —  though 
not  lost  as  nmv  —  and  went  that  way.  To  the  home  of 
Walter's  uncle. 

Checking  her  sobs,  and  drying  her  swollen  eyes,  and 
endeavoring  to  calm  the  agitation  of  her  manner,  so  as 
to  avoid  attracting  notice,  Florence,  resolving  to  keep  to 
the  more  quiet  streets  as  long  as  she  could,  was  going  on 
more  quietly  herself,  when  a  familiar  little  shadow  darted 
pa<t  upon  the  sunny  pavement,  stopped  short,  wheeled 
about,  came  close  to  her,  made  off  again,  bounded  round 
and  round  her,  and  Diogenes,  panting  for  breath,  and  yet 
making  the  street  ring  with  his  glad  bark,  was  at  her 
feet. 

"  Oh,  Di !  oh,  dear,  true,  faithful  Di,  how  did  you 
come  here !  How  could  I  ever  leave  you,  Di,  who 
would  never  leave  me  ! " 

Florence  bent  down  on  the  pavement,- and  laid  hiB 
rough,  old,  loving,  foolish  head  against  her  breast,  and 
they  got  up  together,  and  went  on  together ;  Di  more  off 
the  ground  than  on  it,  endeavoring  to  kiss  his  mistress 
ilying,  tumbling  over  and  getting  up  again  without  the 
least  concern,  dashing  at  big  dogs  in  a  jocose  defiance  of 
his  species,  terrifying  with  touches  of  his  nose  young 
house-maids  who  were  cleaning  doorsteps,  and  continually 
stopping,  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  extravagances,  to 
look  back  at  Florence,  and  bai'k  until  all  the  dogs  within 
hearing  answered,  and  all  the  dogs  who  could  come  outi 
aame  out  to  sUxre  at  him. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  89 

With  this  last  adhei-ent,  Florence  hurried  ;i\v:\y  in  the 
advancing  morning,  and  the  strengthening  sunshine,  to 
the  city.  The  roar  soon  grew  more  loud,  the  passengers 
more  unini  rous,  the  shops  more  husy,  until  she  was 
tyirried  onward  in  a  stream  of  life  setting  that  way,  and 
flowing  indiffeiently,  past  marts  and  mansions,  prisons, 
churches,  market-places,  wealth,  poverty,  good  and  evil, 
liko  the  broad  river,  side  by  side  with  it,  awakened  from 
its  dreams  of  rushes,  willows,  and  green  moss,  and  rolling 
on,  tuibid  and  troubled,  among  the  works  and  cares  of 
men,  to  the  deep  sea. 

At  length  the  quarters  of  the  little  Midshipman  arose 
in  view.  Nearer  yet,  and  the  little  Midshipman  himself 
was  seen  upon  his  post,  intent  as  ever,  on  his  observa- 
tions. Nearer  yet,  and  the  door  stood  open,  inviting  her 
to  enter.  Florence,  who  had  again  quickened  her  pace, 
as  she  approached  the  end  of  her  journey,  ran  across  the 
road  (closely  followed  by  Diogenes,  whom  the  bustle  had 
somiiwhat  confused),  ran  in.  and  sank  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  well-remembered  little  parlor. 

The  captain,  in  his  glazed  hat,  was  standing  over  the 
fire,  making  his  morning's  cocoa,  with  that  elegant  trifle, 
his  watcii,  upon  the  chimney-piece,  for  easy  reference 
during  the  progress  of  the  cookery.  Hearing  a  footstep 
luid  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  the  captain  turned  with  a  pal- 
pitating remembrance  of  the  dreadful  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
at  the  instant  when  Florence  made  a  motion  with  her 
hand  towards  hira,  reeled,  and  fell  upon  the  floor. 

The  captain,  pale  as  Florence,  pale  in  the  very  knobs 
upon  his  face,  raised  her  like  a  baby,  and  laid  her  on 
the  same  old  sofa  upon  which  she  had  slumbered  long 
ago. 

"  It's    Heart's    Delight  !  "   said    the   captain,   looking 


40  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Intently  in  her  face.     "  It's  the  sweet  creetur  grow'd  a 
vioman  ! " 

Captain  Cuttle  was  so  respectful  of  her,  and  had  such 
B  reverence  fur  her,  in  this  new  character,  that  he  woald 
not  have  held  her  in  his  arms,  while  she  was  unconscious, 
for  a  thousand  pounds. 

"  My  Heart's  Delight !  "  said  the  captain,  withdrawing 
to  a  little  distimce,  with  the  greatest  alarm  and  sympathy 
depicted  on  his  countenance.  "  If  you  can  hail  Ned 
Cuttle  with  a  finger,  do  it!** 

But  Florence  did  not  stir. 

**  My.  Heart's  Delight ! "  said  the  trembling  captain. 
*  For  the  sake  of  Wal'r  drownded  in  the  briny  deep,  turn 
to,  and  histe  up  something  or  another,  if  able  !  " 

Finding  her  insensible  to  this  impressive  adjuration 
also,  Captain  Cuttle  snatched  from  his  breakfast-table,  a 
basin  of  cold  water,  and  sprinkled  some  upon  her  face. 
Yielding  to  the  urgency  of  the  case,  the  captain  then, 
using  his  immense  hand  with  extraordinary  gentleness, 
relieved  her  of  her  bonnet,  moistened  her  lips  and  fore- 
head, put  back  her  hair,  covered  her  feet  with  his  own 
coat  which  he  pulled  off  for  the  purpose,  patted  her  hand 
—  so  small  in  his,  that  he  was  struck  with  wonder  when 
he  touciied  it  —  and  seeing  that  her  eyelids  quivered, 
and  that  her  lips  began  to  move,  continued  these  restora- 
tive applications  with  a  better  heart. 

"  Cheerily,"  said  the  captain.  "  Cheerily  !  Stand  by, 
my  pretty  one»  stand  by  !  There  !  You're  better  now. 
Steady's  the  word,  and  steady  it  is.  Keep  her  so  1 
Drink  a  little  drop  o*  this  here,"  said  the  captain. 
"There  you  are  I  What  cheer  now,  my  pretty,  what 
cheer  now  ?  " 

At  this  stage  of  her  recovery.  Captain  Cuttle,  with  an 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  41 

Imperfect  association  of  a  Wateh  with  a  Pliysiciaii's  treats 
tnent  of  a  patient,  touk  his  own  down  from  the  mantel 
slielf,  and  liolding  it  out  on  his  hook,  and  taking  Flor- 
ence'ri  hand  in  his,  looked  steadily  from  one  to  the 
jther,  as  expecting  the  dial  to  do  something. 

"  What  cheer,  my  pretty  ?"  said  the  captain.  ''  What 
cLeor  now  ?  You've  done  her  some  good  my  lad,  I 
believe,"  said  the  captain,  under  his  breath,  and  throw- 
ing an  approving  glance  upon  his  wat(.-h.  "  Put  you 
back  half  an  hour  every  morning,  and  about  another 
quarter  towards  the  afternoon,  and  you're  a  watch  a3 
can  be  ekalled  by  few  and  excelled  by  none.  What 
cheer,  my  lady  lass  I " 

''  Captain  Cuttle  !  Is  it  you  1 "  exclaimed  Florence, 
raising  herself  a  little. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  hastily 
deciding  in  his  own  mind  upon  the  superior  elegance 
of  that  form  of  address,  as  the  most  courtly  he  could 
think  of. 

"Is  Walter's  uncle  here ? "  asked  Florence. 

"  I  lere,  pretty  !  "  returned  the  captain.  "  He  a'n't 
been  here  this  many  a  long  day.  He  a'n't  been  heei"d 
on,  since  he  sheered  off  arter  poor  Wal'r.  But,"  said 
the  captain,  as  a  quotation,  "  Though  lost  to  sight,  to 
memory  dear,  and  England,  Home,  and  Beauty  ! " 

"Do  yofl  live  here?"  asked  Florence. 

"  Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain. 

"  Oh  Captain  Cuttle ! "  cried  Florence,  putting  her 
Lands  together,  and  speaking  wildly.  "Save  me!  keep 
vne  here  !  Let  no  one  know  where  I  am  !  I'll  tell  you 
what  has  happened  by  and  by,  when  I  can.  I  have  no 
one  in  the  world  to  go  to.     Do  not  send  me  away  !  " 

"  Send  you  away,  my  lady  lass' ''  exclaimed  the  cap- 


42  DOMBEY  Ahu  SON. 

tain.  "  Tott,  my  Heart's  Delight !  Stay  a  bit !  We'll 
put  up  tliis  here  dead-light,  and  take  a  double  turn  on 
the  key  ! " 

With  these  words,  the  captain,  using  his  one  hand  and 
his  hook  with  the  greatest  dexterity,  got  out  the  shutte? 
of  the  door,  put  it  up,  made  it  all  fast,  and  locked  th 
door  itself. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  side  of  Florence,  she  took 
his  hand,  and  kissed  it.  The  helplessness  of  the  action, 
the  appeal  it  made  to  him,  the  confidence  it  expressed, 
the  unspeakable  sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pain  of  mind  she 
had  too  plainly  suffered,  and  was  suffering  then,  his 
knowledge  of  her  past  history,  her  present  lonely,  worn, 
and  unprotected  appearance,  all  so  rushed  upon  the  good 
captain  together,  that  he  fairly  overflowed  with  compas- 
sion and  gentleness. 

"  My  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  polishing  the  bridge 
of  his  nose  with  his  arm  until  it  shone  like  burnished 
copper,  "don't  you  say  a  word  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  until 
such  times  as  you  finds  yourself  a-riding  smooth  and 
esisy  ;  which  won't  be  to-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow.  And 
as  to  giving  of  you  up,  or  reporting  where  you  are,  yes 
verily,  and  by  God's  help,  so  I  won't.  Church  catechism, 
make  a  note  on  ! " 

This  the  captain  said,  reference  and  all,  in  one 
breath,  and  with  much  solemnity ;  taking  off^iis  hat  at 
"yes  verily,"  and  putting  it  on  again,  when  he  had  quite 
concluded. 

Florence  could  do  but  one  thing  more  to  thank  him. 
and  to  show  him  how  she  trusted  in  him  ;  and  she  did  it 
Clinging  to  this  rough  creature  as  the  last  asylum  of  her 
bleeding  heart,  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  honest  shoul- 
der, and  clasped   him  round  hif  '    ck.  and  would  have 


EOMBEY  AND  SCS.  4» 

kneeled  down  to  bless  him,' but  that  he  divined  her  par 
pose,  aod  held  her  up  like  a  true  man. 

"  Steady  !  "  said  the  captain.  "  Steady  !  You're  too 
weak  to  stand,  you  see,  my  pretty,  and  must  lie  down 
here  again.  There,  there  ! "  To  see  the  captain  lift  her 
on  the  sofa,  and  cover  her  with  his  coat,  would  have 
been  worth  a  hundred  state  sights.  "  And  now,"  said 
the  captain,  "  you  must  take  some  breakfast,  lady  lasa, 
and  the  dog  shall  have  some  too.  And  arter  that  you 
shall  go  aloft  to  old  Sol  Gills's  room,  and  fall  asleep 
there,  like  a  angel." 

Captain  Cuttle  patted  Diogenes  when  he  made  allu- 
sion to  him,  and  Diogenes  met  that  overture  graciously, 
halt-vfay.  During  the  administration  of  the  restoratives 
6e  had  olearly  been  in  two  minds  whether  to  fly  at  th«j 
captain  or  to  offer  him  his  friendship  ;  and  hi^  had  ex- 
pressed that  conflict  of  feeling  by  alternate  waggings  of 
his  tail,  and  lisplays  of  his  teeth,  with  now  and  then  a 
growl  or  sc.  But  by  this  time  his  doubts  were  all  re- 
moved. It  \i'ri3  plain  that  he  considered  the  captain  one 
of  the  most  ai/iiable  of  men,  and  a  man  whom  it  was  an 
honor  to  a  dog  to  know. 

In  evideni;e  o."  these  convictions,  Diogenes  attended  on 
the  captain  while  ae  made  some  tea  and  toast,  and  showed 
a  lively  interest  in  his  house-keeping.  But  it  was  in 
vain  for  the  kind  captain  to  make  such  preparations  for 
Florence,  who  sorely  tried  to  do  some  honor  lo  them, 
but  could  touch  nothing,  and  could  only  weep  and  weep 
again. 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  the  compassionate  captain,  '•  arter 
turning  in,  my  Heait's  Delight,  you'll  get  more  way 
upon  you.  Now,  I'll  serve  out  your  allowance,  my  lad." 
To  Diogenes.  "  And  you  shall  keep  guard  on  your  misi 
Vress  aloft " 


14  DOMfiEf  AND  SON. 

Diogenes,  however,  although  he  had  been  eying  his 
intended  breakfast  with  a  watering  mouth  and  glistening 
eyes,  instead  of  falling  to,  ravenously,  when  it  was  put 
before  him,  pricked  up  his  ears,  darted  to  the  shop-door, 
and  barked  there  furiously :  burrowing  with  his  head  at 
the  bottom,  as  if  he  were  bent  on  mining  his  way  out. 

"  Can  there  be  anybody  there  1 "  asked  Florence,  in 
alarm. 

"  No,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain.  "  Who'd 
stay  there,  without  making  any  noise  !  Keep  up  a  good 
heart,  pretty.     It's  only  people  going  by." 

But  for  all  that,  Diogenes  barked  and  barked,  and 
burrowed  and  burrowed  with  pertinacious  fury ;  and 
whenever  he  stopped  to  listen,  appeared  to  receive  some 
new  conviction  into  his  mind,  for  he  set  to,  barking  and 
burrowing  again,  a  dozen  times.  Even  when  he  was 
persuaded  to  return  to  his  breakfast,  he  came  jogging 
back  to  it,  with  a  very  doubtful  air  ;  and  was  off  again, 
in  another  paroxysm,  before  touching  a  morsel. 

*'  If  there  should  be  some  one  listening  and  watching," 
whispered  Florence.  "  Some  one  who  saw  me  come  — 
who  followed  me,  perhaps." 

"  It  a'n't  the  young  woman,  lady  lass,  is  it  ?  "  said  the 
captain,  taken  with  a  bright  idea. 

"Susan?"  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head.  "Ah 
no !  Susan  has  been  gone  from  me  a  long  time." 

"  Not  deserted,  I  hope  ?  "  said  the  captain.  "  Don't 
Bay  that  that  there  young  woman's  run,  my  pretty  I  ** 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  cried  Florence.  "  She  is  one  of  the 
truest  hearts  in  the  world ! " 

The  captain  was  greatly  relieved  by  this  reply,  and 
expressed  his  satisfaction  by  taking  off  his  hard  glazed 
hat,  and  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  handkerchief 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  41 

rolled  up  lilic  a  ball,  observing  several  times,  wiih  infinite 
complacency,  and  with  a  beaming  countenance,  that  he 
knovv'd  it. 

"So  you're  qu\et  now,  are  you,  brother?"  Paid  the 
captain  to  Diogenes.  "  Tliere  warn't  nobody  there,  my 
lady  lass,  bless  you  !  " 

Diogenes  was  not  so  sure  of  that.  The  door  still  had 
an  attraction  for  him  at  intervals ;  and  he  went  snulfing 
about  it,  and  growling  to  himself,  unable  to  forget  the 
subject.  This  incident,  coupled  with  the  captain's  ob- 
servation of  Florence's  fatigue  and  faintness,  decided 
him  to  prepare  Sol  Gills's  chamber  as  a  place  of  retire- 
ment for  her  immediately.  iFe  therefore  hastily  betook 
himself  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  made  the  best  ar- 
rangement of  it  that  his  imagination  and  his  means  sug- 
gested. 

It  was  very  clean  already  ;  and  the  captain,  being  an 
orderly  man,  and  accustomed  to  make  things  sliip-shape, 
converted  the  bed  into  a  couch,  by  covering  it  all  over 
with  a  clean  wliite  drapery.  By  a  similar  contrivance, 
the  captain  converted  the  little  dressing-table  into  a 
epecies  of  altar,  on  which  he  set  forth  two  silver  tea- 
spoons, a  flower-pot,  a  telescope,  his  celebiated  watch,  a 
pocket-comb,  and  a  song-book,  as  a  small  collection  of 
rarities,  that  made  a  choice  appearance.  Having  dark- 
ened the  window,  and  straightened  the  pieces  of  carpet 
on  the  floor,  the  captain  surveyed  these  pn^paralions  with 
great  delight,  and  descended  to  the  little  parlor  again,  to 
bring  Florence  to  her  bower. 

Nothing  would  induce  the  captain  to  believe  thai  it 
was  possible  for  Florence  to  walk  up-stairs.  If  he  could 
flave  got  the  idea  into  his  head,  he  would  have  considered 
t  an  outrageous  l)reach  of  hospitality  to  allow  her  to  do 


18  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

to.  Florence  was  too  weak  to  dispute  the  point,  and  the 
captain  carried  her  up  out  of  hand,  laid  her  down,  and 
cx)vered  her  with  a  great  watch-coat. 

"  My  lady  lass  !  "  said  the  captain,  "  you're  as  safe  heit 
as  if  you  was  at  the  top  of  St.  Puul's  Cathedral,  with  the 
ladder  cast  off.  Sleep  is  what  you  want,  afore  all  other 
things,  and  may  you  be  able  to  show  yourself  smart  with 
that  (here  balsam  for  the  still  small  woice  of  a  wownded 
mind !  When  there's  anything  you  want,  ray  Heart's 
Delight,  as  this  here  humble  house  or  town  can  offer, 
pass  the  word  to  Ed'urd  Cuttle,  as'll  stand  off  and  on 
outside  that  door,  and  that  there  man  will  wibi-ate  with 
joy."  The  captain  concluded  by  kissi  ig  the  hand  that 
Florence  stretched  out  to  him,  with  the  chivalry  of  any 
old  knight-errant,  and  walking  on  tiptoe  out  of  the 
room. 

Descending  to  the  little  parlor.  Captain  Cuttle,  after 
holding  a  hasty  council  with  himself,  decided  to  ojKjn  the 
shop-<loor  for  a  few  minutes,  and  sati.-fy  himself  tliat  now, 
at  all  events,  there  was  no  one  loitering  about  it.  Ac- 
cordingly lie  set  it  open,  and  stood  upon  the  threshold, 
keeping  a  bright  look-out,  and  sweeping  the  whole  street 
with  his  spectacles. 

"  How  de  do,  Captain  Gills  ? "  said  a  voice  beside 
him.  Tlie  captain,  looking  down,  found  that  he  had 
iKHjn  boarded  by  Mr.  Toots  while  sweeping  the  horizon. 

"  How  are  you,  my  lad  ?  "  replied  the  captain. 

"  Well,  I'm  pretty  well,  thank'ee.  Captain  Gills,"  said 
Air.  Toots.  "  You  know  I'm  never  quite  what  1  could 
wish  to  be,  now.  I  don'  expect  that  I  ever  sliall  be 
iiiy  more." 

Mr.  Toots  never  approached  any  n'^arer  than  this  to 
iie  great  theme  of  his  life,  when  in  conversation  with 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ijt 

Captain  Cultle,  on  account  of  the  agreement  between 
them. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  if  I  could  have  the 
pleasure  of  a  word  with  you,  it's  —  it's  rather  particu- 
lar." 

"  Why,  you  see  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  leading 
the  way  into  the  parlor,  "  I  a'n't  wiiat  you  may  call  ex- 
actly free  this  morning;  and  therefore  if  you  can  clap  on 
a  bit,  I  should  take  it  kindly." 

"  Certainly  Captain  Gill:;,"  replied  Mr.  Toot>>,  who 
seldom  had  any  notion  of  the  captain's  meaning.  "  To 
clap  on,  is  exactly  what  I  could  wish  to  do.     Naturally." 

"  If  so  be,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.     "  Do  it !  " 

The  captain  was  so  impressed  by  the  possession  of  his" 
tremendous  secret  —  by  the  fact  of  Miss  Dombey  being 
at  that  moment  under  his  roof,  while  the  innocent  and 
unconscious  Toots  sat  opposite  to  him  —  that  a  perspira- 
tion broke  out  on  his  forehead,  and  he  found  it  impos- 
sible, while  slowly  drying  the  same,  glazed  hat  in  hand, 
to  keep  his  eyes  off  Mr.  Toots's  face.  Mr.  Tocts,  who 
himself  appeared  to  have  some  secret  reasons  for  being  in 
a  nervous  state,  was  so  unspeakably  disconcerted  by  the 
captain's  stare,  that  after  looking  at  him  vacantly  for 
Bome  time  in  silence,  and  shifting  uneasily  on  his  chair, 
he  said : 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Captain  Gills,  but  you  don't  hap- 
pen to  see  anything  particular  in  me,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,  ray  lad,"  returned  the  captain.     "  No." 

"  Because  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a  chuckle 
"  I  KNOW  I'm  wasting  away.  You  needn't  at  all  mind 
alluding  to  that.  I  —  I  should  like  it.  Burgess  and  Co. 
Dave  altered  my  measure,  I'm  in  that  state  of  thinness. 
It's  a  srratification  to  me.     I  —  I'm  glad  of  it.     I  —  I'd 


48  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

a  great  deal  rather  go  into  a  decline,  if  I  could.  I'm  a 
mere  brute  you  know,  grazing  upon  the  surface  of  the 
wu'th,  Captain  Gills." 

The  more  Mr.  Toots  went  on  in  this  way,  the  more 
ll.e  cjiptain  was  weighed  down  by  his  secret,  and  stared 
at  him.  What  with  this  cause  of  uneasiness,  and  his 
desire  to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Toots,  the  captain  was  in  such 
B  scared  and  strange  condition,  indeed,  that  if  he  had 
been  in  conversation  with  a  ghost,  he  could  hardly  have 
evinced  greater  discomposure. 

**  But  I  was  going  to  say.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots.  "  Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morning 
—  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  coming  to  breakfast  with 
you.  As  to  sleep,  30U  know  I  never  sleep  now.  I 
might  be  a  Watchman,  except  that  I  don't  get  any  pay, 
and  he's  got  nothing  on  his  mind." 

"  Carry  on,  my  lad  ! "  said  the  captain,  in  an  admon- 
itory voice. 

"Certainly,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  **  Per- 
feclly  true  I  Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this 
morning  (an  hour  or  so  ago),  and  finding  the  door 
shut " — 

"  What !  were  you  waiting  there,  brother  ?  "  demanded 
the  captain. 

"  Not  at  all,  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  "  I 
didn't  stop  a  moment.  I  thought  you  were  out.  Bui 
the  person  said  —  by  the  by,  you  don't  keep  a  dog  do 
you,  Captain  Gills  ?  " 

'J'he  captain  shook  his  head. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that's  exactly  what  I 
said.  I  knew  you  didn't.  There  U  a  dog.  Captain 
Gills,  connected  with  —  but  excuse  me.  That's  forbid- 
len   ground." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  49 

The  tMpfain  stared  at  Mr.  Toots  until  lie  seemed  tc 
awell  to  twice  his  natural  size  ;  and  a^ain  the  perspira- 
tion broke  out  on  the  captain's  forehead,  when  he  thoujjht 
uf  Diogenes  taking  it  into  his  head  to  come  down  and 
make  a  third  in  the  parlor. 

"The  person  said,"  continued  Mr,  Toots,  "  that  he  hj^d 
heard  a  dog  barking  in  the  sliop :  which  I  knew  couldn't 
be,  and  I  told  him  so.  But  he  was  as  positive  as  if  lio 
had  seen  the  dog." 

"  What  person,  my  lad  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

•*  Why,  you  see  there  it  is,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  a  perceptible  increase  in  the  nervousness 
of  his  manner.  "  It's  not  for  me  to  say  what  may  have 
taken  place,  or  what  may  not  have  taken  place.  Irw 
deed,  I  don't  know.  I  get  mixed  up  with  all  sorts 
of   tilings  that    I    don't    quite  understand,  and  I  think 

there's  something  rather  weak  in  my in  my  head, 

in  short." 

The  captain  nodded  his  own,  as  a  mark  of  assent. 

"  But  the  person  said,  as  we  were  walking  away," 
continued  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  you  knew  what,  under  ex- 
isting circumstances,  might  occur —  he  said  '  might,'  very 
strongly  —  and  that  if  you  were  requested  to  prepai-e 
yourself,  you  would,  no  doubt,  come   prepared." 

"  Person,  my  lad  I "  the  captain  repeated. 

"  I  don't  know  what  person,  I'm  sure.  Captain  Gills," 
replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  But  com- 
ing to  the  door,  I  found  him  waiting  there  ;  and  he  said 
was  I  coming  back  again,  and  I  said  yes  ;  and  he  said 
did  I  know  you,  and  I  said,  yes,  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
your  acquaintance  —  you  had  given  me  the  pleasure  of 
your  acquaintance,  after  some  persuasion ;  and  he  said, 
if  that  was  the  case,  would  I  say  to  you  what  I  have  said 

VOL.  IV.  4 


50  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

about  existing  circumstances  and  coming  prepared,  and 
KS  soon  as  ever  T  saw  you,  would  I  ask  you  to  step  round 
ihe  corner,  if  it  was  only  for  one  minute,  on  most  im[)or- 
tant  business,  to  Mr.  Brogley's  the  broker's.  Now,  I 
tell  you  what.  Captain  Gills  —  whatever  it  is,  I  am  con- 
vinced it's  very  important;  and  if  you  like  to  step  routid 
DOW,  I'll  wait  here  till  you  come  back." 

The  captain,  divided  between  his  fear  of  compromis- 
ing Florence  in  some  way  by  not  going,  and  his  horrw 
of  leaving  Mr.  Toots  in  possession  of  the  house  with  a 
chance  of  finding  out  the  secret,  was  a  spectacle  of  men- 
tal disturbance  that  even  Mr.  Toots  could  not  be  blind 
to.  But  that  young  gentleman,  considering  his  nautical 
friend  as  merely  in  a  state  of  preparation  for  the  inter- 
view he  was  going  to  have,  was  quite  satisfied,  and  did 
not  review  his  own  discreet  conduct  without  chuckles. 

At  length  the  captain  decided,  as  the  lesser  of  two 
evils,  to  run  round  to  Brogley's  the  broker's :  previ- 
ously locking  the  door  that  communicated  with  the  up- 
per part  of  the  house,  and  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket. 
*'  If  so  be,"  said  the  captain  to  Mr.  Toots,  with  not  a  lit- 
tle shame  and  hesitation,  "  as  you'll  excuse  my  doing  o( 
it,  brother." 

"  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  whatever  yon 
do,  is  satisfactory  to  me." 

The  captain  thanked  hira  heartily,  and  promising  to 
CODae  back  in  less  than  five  minutes,  went  out  in  quest 
of  the  person  who  had  intrusted  Mr.  Toots  A'ith  thif 
mysterious  message.  Poor  Mr.  Toots,  left  to  himself, 
lay  down  upon  the  sofa,  little  thinking  who  had  reclineo 
there  last,  and,  gazing  up  at  the  skylight  and  resigning 
himself  to  visions  of  Mi^s  Dombey,  lest  all  heed  of  time 
Rnd  place.        ;v'  woy  i^>1XH' 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  51 

II  uMs  as  well  that  he  did  so  ;  for  although  the  captain 
was  not  ;^on(!  long,  he  was  gone  much  longer  than  he  had 
proposed.  When  he  came  back,  he  was  very  pale  in- 
deed, and  greatly  agitated,  and  even  looked  as  if  he  had 
been  shedding  tears.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  the  fac- 
ulty of  speech,  until  he  had  been  to  the  cupboard  and 
taken  a  dram  of  rum  from  the  case-bottle,  when  he 
fctciied  a  deep  breath,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  with  his 
band  before  his  face. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Toots,  kindly,  "  I  hope  and  trust 
there's  nothing  wrong?" 

"  Tliank'ee  my  lad,  not  a  bit,"  said  the  ciiptain.  "  Quite 
contrairy."  • 

^  "  You  have  the  appearance  of  being  overcome,  Cap- 
tain Gills,"  observed  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Why  my  lad,  I  am  took  aback,"  the  CJipfain  admitted. 
"  I  am." 

•'  Is  there  anything  I  can  do.  Captain  Gills  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Toots.     "  If  there  is,  make  use  of  me." 

The  captain  removed  his  hand  from  his  face,  looked 
at  him  with  a  remarkable  expression  of  pity  and  ten- 
derness, and  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  shook  it 
hard. 

"No  tliank'ee,"  said  the  captain.  "Nothing.  Only 
I'll  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you'll  part  company  for  the 
present.  I  believe,  brother,"  wringing  his  hand  again, 
**  that,  after  Wal'r,  and  on  a  different  model,  you're  aa 
good  a  lad  as  ever  stepped." 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor  Captaii  Gills,"  returned 
Mr.  Toots,  giving  the  captain's  hand  a  preliminary  slap 
before  shaking  it  again,  '-it's  delightful  to  me  to  possess 
four  good  opinion.     Tliank'ee." 

"  And  bear  a  hand  and  cheer  up,"  said  the  captain. 


52  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

\ 

patting  him  on  the  back.     "  What !     There's  more  than 

one  sweet  creetur  in  the  world  ! " 

"  Not  to  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  gravely, 
•*  Not  to  me,  I  assure  you.  The  state  of  ray  feelings 
towards  Miss  Dombey  is  of  that  unspeakable  descrip- 
tion, that  my  heart  is  a  desert  island,  and  she  lives  in  il 
alone.  I'm  getting  more  used  up  every  day,  and  I'm 
proud  to  be  so.  If  you  could  see  my  legs  when  I  take 
my  boots  off,  you'd  form  some  idea  of  what  unrequited 
affection  is.  I  have  been  prescribed  bark,  but  I  don't 
take  it,  for  I  don't  wish  to  have  any  tone  whatever 
given  to  my  constitution.  I'd  rather  not.  This,  how- 
ever, is  forbidden  groiAd.     Captain  Gills,  good-by  ! " 

Captain  Cuttle  cordially  reciprocating  the  warmth  ©f 
Mr.  Toots's  farewell,  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and 
shaking  his  head  with  the  same  remarkable  expression 
ol"  pity  and  tenderness  as  he  had  regarded  him  with  be- 
fore, went  up  to  see  if  Florence  wanted  him. 

There  was  an  entire  change  in  the  captain's  face  as 
he  went  up-stairs.  He  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  he  polished  the  bridge  of  his  nose  with 
his  sleeve  as  he  had  done  already  that  morning,  but  his 
face  was  absolutely  changed.  Now,  he  might  have  been 
thought  supremely  happy ;  now,  he  might  have  been 
thought  sad ;  but  the  kind  of  gravity  that  sat  upon  his 
features  was  quite  new  to  them,  and  was  as  great  an 
improvement  to  them  as  if  they  had  undergone  seme 
sublimating  process. 

He  knocked  softly,  with  his  hook,  at  Florence's  door, 
twice  or  thrice ;  but,  receiving  no  answer,  venfun-d 
first  to  peep  in,  and  then  to  enter :  emboldened  to  take 
Ihe  latter  step,  perhaps,  by  the  familiar  recognition  of 
Diogenes,  who,  stretched  upon  the  ground  by  the  side 


DOMB£Y  AND  SON.  63 

of  her  couch,  wagged  his  tail,  and  winked  his  eyes  at 
the  captain,  without  being  at  the  trouble  of  getting 
up.  • 

She  was  sleeping  heavily,  and  moaning  in  her  sleep ; 
and  Captain  Cuttle,  with  a  perfect  awe  of  her  youth  and 
beauty,  and  her  sorrow,  raised  her  head,  and  adjusted 
the  coat  that  covered  her,  where  it  had  fallen  off,  and 
darkened  the  window  a  little  more  that  she  might  sleep 
on,  and  crept  out  again,  and  took  his  post  of  watch  upon 
the  stairs.  All  this,  with  a  touch  and  tread,  as  light  as 
Florence's  own. 

Long  may  it  remain  in  this  mixed  world  a  point  not 
easy  of  decision,  which  is  the  more  beautiful  evidence 
of  the  Almighty's  goodness  —  the  delicate  lingers  that 
are  formed  for  sensitiveness  and  sympathy  of  touch, 
and  made  to  minister  to  pain  and  grief,  or  the  rough 
hard  Captain  Cuttle  hand,  that  the  heart  teaches,  guides, 
and  softens  in  a  moment ! 

Florence  slept  upon  her  couch,  forgetful  of  her  home- 
lessness  and  orphanage,  and  Captain  Cuttle  watched 
upon  the  stairs.  A  louder  sob  or  moan  than  usual, 
brought  him  sometimes  to  her  door;  but  by  degrees 
she  slept  more  peacefully,  and  the  captain's  watch  waa 
ac  disturbed. 


f)4  DOMBET  AND  SOS, 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

THE   MIDSHIPMAN   MAKES   A   DISCOVTCKY. 

It  was  long  before  Florence  awoke.  The  day  WM 
in  its  prime,  the  day  was  in  its  wane,  and  still,  uneasy 
in  mind  and  body,  she  slept  on ;  unconscious  of  her 
strange  bed,  of  the  noise  and  turmoil  in  the  street,  and 
of  the  light  that  shone  outside  the  shaded  window.  Per- 
fect unconsciousness  of  what  had  happened  in  the  home 
that  existed  no  more,  even  the  deep  slumber  of  exhaus- 
tion could  not  produce.  Some  undefined  and  mournful 
recollection  of  it,  dozing  uneasily,  but  never  sleeping, 
pervaded  all  her  rest.  A  dull  sorrow,  like  a  half-lulled 
sense  of  pain,  was  always  present  to  her ;  and  her  pale 
cheek  was  oftener  wet  with  tears  than  the  honest  cap- 
tain, softly  putting  in  his  head  from  time  to  time  at 
the  half-closed  door,  could  have  desired  to  see  it 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west,  and,  glancing 
out  of  a  red  mist,  pierced  with  its  rays  opjMJsite  loop- 
holes and  pieces  of  fret-work  in  the  spires  of  city 
churches,  as  if  with  golden  arrows  that  struck  through 
and  through  them  —  and  far  away  athwart  the  rivei 
and  its  flat  banks,  it  was  gleaming  like  a  path  of  fire  — 
and  out  at  sea  it  was  irradiating  sails  of  ships  —  and, 
looked  towards,  from  quiet  churchyards,  upon  hill-tops 
in  the  country,  it  was  steeping  distant  prospects  in  a 
flush  and  glow  that   seemed   to   mingle  earth  and  sky 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  M 

together  in  one  glorious  suffusion  —  vhen  Florence, 
opening  lier  heavy  eyes,  lay  at  first,  looking  without 
interest  or  recognition  at  the  unfamiliar  walls  around 
her,  and  listening  in  the  same  regardless  manner  to  the 
noises  in  the  street.  But  presently  she  started  up  upou 
her  couch,  gazed  round  with  a  surprised  and  vacant  look, 
and  recollected  all. 

"  My  pretty,"  said  the  captain,  knocking  at  the  door, 
"  what  cheer !  " 

"  Dear  friend,"  cried  Florence,  hurrying  to  him,  **  u 
it  you  ?  " 

The  captain  felt  so  much  pride  in  the  name,  and  waa 
BO  pleased  by  the  gleam  of  pleasure  in  her  face  when 
she  saw  him,  that  he  kissed  his  hook,  by  way  of  reply, 
in  speechless  gratification. 

"  What  cheer,  bright  di'mond ! "  said  the  captain. 

"I  have  surely  slept  very  long,"  returned  Florence. 
''  When  did  I  come  here  ?     Yesterday  ?  " 

"  This  here  blessed  day,  my  lady  lass,"  replied  the 
captain. 

"  Has  there  been  no  night  ?  Is  it  still  day  ?  "  asked 
Florence. 

"  Getting  on  for  evening  now,  my  pretty,"  said  the 
captain,  drawing  back  the  curtain  of  the  window. 
•«  See ! " 

Florence,  with  her  hand  upon  the  captain's  arm,  so 
Borrowful  and  timid,  and  the  captain  with  his  rough  face 
Bnd  burly  figure,  so  quietly  protective  of  her,  stood  in 
the  rosy  light  of  the  bright  evening  sky,  without  say- 
ing a  word.  However  strange  the  form  of  speech  iiito 
which  he  might  have  fashioned  the  feeling,  if  he  had 
had  to  give  it  utterance,  the  captain  felt,  as  sensibly 
as  the  most  eloquent  of  men  could  ha^e  done,  that  there 


56  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

was  somethi.ig  in  the  tranquil  time  and  in  its  softened 
beauty  that  would  make  the  wounded  heart  of  Florence 
overflow ;  and  that  it  was  better  that  such  tears  should 
have  their  way.  So  not  a  word  spake  Captain  Cuttle. 
But  when  he  felt  his  arm  clasped  closer,  and  when  he 
felt  (he  lonely  head  come  nearer  to  it,  and  lay  itself 
against  his  homely  coarse  blue  sleeve,  he  pressed  it 
gently  with  his  rugged  hand,  and  understood  it,  and  wai 
understood. 

"  Better  now,  my  pretty  !  "  said  the  captain.  "  Cheer' 
ily,  cheerily  ;  I'll  go  down  below,  and  get  some  dinner 
ready.  Will  you  come  down  of  your  own  self,  arter- 
wards,  pretty,  or  shall  Ed'ard  Cuttle  come  and  fetch 
you  ?  " 

As  Florence  assured  him  that  she  was  quite  able  to 
walk  down-stairs,  the  captain,  though  evidently  doubt- 
ful of  his  own  hospitality  in  permitting  it,  left  her  to  do 
60,  and  immediately  set  about  roasting  a  fowl  at  the 
fire  in  the  little  parlor.  To  achieve  his  cookery  with 
the  greater  skill,  he  pulled  off  his  coat,  tucked  up  his 
wristbands,  and  put  on  his  glazed  hat,  without  which 
assistant  he  never  applied  himself  to  any  nice  or  difficult 
undertaking. 

After  cooling  her  aching  head  and  burning  face  in 
the  fresh  water  which  the  captain's  care  had  provided 
for  her  while  she  slept,  Florence  went  to  the  little 
mirror  to  bind  up  her  disordered  hair.  Then  she  kneiv 
—  in  a  moment,  for  she  shunned  it  instantly  —  that  on 
ber  breast  there  was  the  darkening  mark  of  an  angry 
hand. 

Her  tears  burst  forth  afresh  at  the  sight ;  she  Waa 
ashamed  and  afraid  of  it ;  but  it  moved  her  to  no  anger 
against  him.     Homeless  and  fatherless,  she  forgave  him 


DOM  BEY  AND  SO>r.  57 

everything ;  hardly  thought  that  she  had  need  to  forgive 
him,  or  that  she  did ;  but  she  fled  from  the  idea  of  him 
as  she  had  fled  from  the  reality,  and  he  was  utterly  gone 
and  lost.     There  was  no  such  Being  in  the  world. 

What  to  do,  or  where  to  live,  Florence  —  poor,  in- 
experienced girl !  —  could  not  yet  consider.  She  had 
indistinct  dreams  of  finding,  a  long  way  ofl^,  some  little 
sisters  to  instruct,  who  would  be  gentle  with  her,  and 
to  whom,  under  some  feigned  name,  she  might  attach 
herself,  and  who  would  grow  up  in  their  happy  home, 
and  marry,  and  be  good  to  their  old  governess,  and 
perhaps  intrust  her,  in  time,  with  the  education  of  their 
own  daughters.  And  she  thought  how  strange  and 
sorrowful  it  would  be,  thus  to  become  a  gray-haired 
woman,  carrying  her  secret  to  the  grave,  when  Florence 
Dombey  was  forgotten.  But  it  was  all  dim  and  clouded 
to  her  now.  She  only  knew  that  she  had  no  Father 
upon  earth,  and  she  said  so  many  times,  with  her  sup- 
pliant head  hidden  from  all,  but  her  Fatlier  who  was 
in  Heaven. 

Her  little  stock  of  money  amounted  to  but  a  few 
guineas.  Witii  a  part  of  this,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
buy  some  clothes,  for  she  had  none  but  those  she  wore. 
She  was  too  desolate  to  think  how  soon  her  money 
would  be  gone  —  too  much  a  child  in  worldly  matters 
to  be  greatly  troubled  on  that  score  yet,  even  if  her 
other  trouble  had  been  less.  She  tried  to  calm  her 
thoughts  and  stay  her  tears ;  to  quiet  the  hurry  in  her 
throbbing  head,  and  bring  herself  to  believe  that  what 
had  happened  were  but  the  events  of  a  few  hours  ago, 
instead  of  weeks  or  months,  as  they  appeared  ;  and  went 
■lown  to  her  kind  protector. 

The  captain    had    spread  the  cloth  with    great    care. 


58  DOMBETAND  SON. 

Rnd  was  making  some  egg-sauce  in  a  little  saucepan: 
basting  the  fowl  from  time  to  time  during  the  procesa 
with  a  strong  interest,  as  it  turned  and  browned  on  a 
string  before  the  fire.  Having  propped  Florence  up 
with  cushions  on  the  sofa,  which  was  already  wheeled 
into  a  warm  corner  for  her  greater  comfort,  the  captain 
pursued  his  cooking  with  extraordinary  skill,  making 
hot  gravy  in  a  second  little  saucepan,  boiling  a  handful 
of  potatoes  in  a  third,  never  forgetting  the  egg-sauce  ia 
the  first,  and  making  an  impartial  round  of  basting  and 
stirring  with  the  most  useful  of  spoons  every  minute^ 
Besides  these  cares,  the  captain  had  to  keep  his  eye  on 
a  diminutive  frying-pan,  in  which  some  sausages  were 
hissing  and  bubbling  in  a  most  musical  manner;  and 
there  was  never  such  a  radiant  cook  as  the  captain 
looked,  in  the  height  and  heat  of  these  functions :  it 
being  impossible  to  say  whether  his  face  or  his  glazed 
hat  shone  the  brighter. 

The  dinner  being  at  length  quite  ready.  Captain  Cut- 
tle dished  and  served  it  up,  with  no  less  dexterity  than 
he  had  cooked  it.  He  then  dressed  for  dinner,  by  taking 
off  his  glazed  hat  and  putting  on  his  coat.  That  done, 
he  wheeled  the  table  close  against  Florence  on  the  sofa, 
eaid  grace,  unscrewed  his  hook,  screwed  his  fork  into  its 
place,  and  did  the  honors  of  the  table. 

"  My  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  "  cheer  up,  and  try 
to  eat  a  deal.  Stand  by,  my  deary  !  Liver  wing  it  is. 
Sarse  it  is.  Sassage  it  is.  And  potato  !  "  all  which  the 
captain  ranged  symmetrically  on  a  plate,  and,  pouring 
hot  gravy  oc  the  whole  with  the  useful  spoon,  set  before 
bis  cherished  guest. 

*'  The  whole  row  o'  dead  lights  is  up,  for'ard,  lady  lass  ** 
observed  the  captain,  encouragingly,  "  and  everythink  i» 


UOMBEY  AND  SON.  W 

made  snug.  Try  and  pick  a  bit,  my  pretty.  If  Wal'r 
was  here  "  — 

**  Ah  !  If  I  had  him  for  my  brother  now  !  "  cried 
Florence. 

"  Don't !  don't  take  on,  my  pretty  ! "  said  the  cnptain  \ 
"  awast  to  obleege  me !  He  was  your  nat'ral  boni  friend 
like,  warn't  he  Pet  ?  " 

Florence  had  no  words  to  answer  with.  She  only 
ftrtid,  "  Oh,  dear,  dear  Paul !  oh  Walter ! " 

"  The  wery  planks  she  walked  on,"  murmured  the  cap- 
tain, looking  at  her  drooping  face,  "  was  as  high  esteemed 
by  Wal'r,  as  the  water  brooks  is  by  the  hart  which  never 
rejices!  I  see  him  now,  the  wery  day  as  he  was  rated 
on  them  Dombey  books,  a-speaking  of  her  with  his  face 
a-glistening  with  doo  —  leastways  with  his  modest  senti- 
ments—  like  a  new-blowed  rose,  at  dinner.  Well,  well ! 
If  our  poor  Wal'r  was  here,  my  lady  lass  —  or  if  he 
could  be  —  for  he's  drownded,  a'n't  he  ?  " 

Florence  shook  her  head. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  drownded,"  said  the  captain,  soothingly . 
"as*  I  was  saying,  if  he  could  be  here  he'd  beg  and  pray 
of  you,  my  precious,  to  pick  a  leetle  bit,  with  a  look-ou* 
for  your  own  sweet  health.  Whereby,  hold  your  own, 
my  lady  lass,  as  if  it  was  for  Wal'r's  sake,  and  lay  your 
pretty  head  to  the  wind." 

Florence  essayed  to  eat  a  morsel,  for  the  captain's 
pleas»ure.  The  captain,  meanwhile,  who  seemed  to  have 
quite  forgotten  his  own  dinner,  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork,  and  drew  his  chair  to  the  sofa. 

"  Wal'r  was  a  trim  lad,  warn't  he,  precious  ?  "  said  the 
captain,  after  sitnng  for  some  time  silently  rubbing  hia 
chin,  witli  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  "  and  a  brave  lad, 
ind  a  good  lad  ?  " 


60  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Florehcfi  tearfully  assented. 

"  And  he's  drownded,  Beauty,  a'n't  he  ?"  said  the  cap- 
tain, in  a  soothing  voice. 

Florence  could  not  but  assent  again. 

"  He  was  older  than  you,  my  lady  lass,"  pursued  the 
captain,  "  but  you  was  like  two  children  together,  st 
first ;  warn't  you  ?  " 

Florence  answered  "Yes." 

"  And  WalVs  drownded,"  said  the  captain.  "  A'n't 
he?" 

The  repetition  of  this  inquiry  was  a  curious  source  of 
consolation,  but  it  seemed  to  be  one  to  Captain  Cuttle, 
for  he  came  back  to  it  again  and  again.  Florence,  fain 
to  push  from  her  her  untasted  dinner,  and  to  lie  back  on 
her  sofa,  gave  him  her  hand,  feeling  that  she  had  disap- 
pointed him,  though  truly  wishing  to  have  pleased  him 
after  all  his  trouble,  but  he  held  it  in  his  own  (which 
shook  as  he  held  it),  and,  appearing  to  have  quite  for- 
gotten all  about  the  dinner  and  her  want  of  appetite, 
went  on  growling  at  intervals,  in  a  ruminating  tone  of 
sympathy,  "  Poor  WaVr.  Ay,  ay  !  Drownded.  A'n't 
he  ?  "  And  always  waited  for  her  answer,  in  which  the 
great  point  of  these  singular  reflections  appeared  to  con- 
sist. 

The  fowl  and  the  sausages  were  cold,  and  the  gravy 
and  the  egg-sauce  stagnant,  before  the  captain  remem- 
bered that  they  were  on  the  board,  and  fell  to  with  the 
assistance  of  Diogenes,  whose  united  efforts  quickly  de- 
spatched the  banquet.  The  captain's  delight  and  wonder 
at  the  quiet  housewifery  of  Florence  in  assisting  to  clear 
the  table,  an-ange  the  parlor,  and  sweep  up  the  hearth  — " 
only  to  be  equalled  by  the  fervency  of  his  protest  when 
she  began  to  assist  him  —  were  gradually  raised  to  thai 


DOMBET  ASD  SON.  61 

degrae,  that  at  last  he  could  not*  choose  but  do  nothing 
himself,  and  stand  looking  at  her  as  if  she  were  some 
Fairy,  daintily  performing  these  offices  for  him  ;  the  red 
rim  on  his  forehead  glowing  again,  in  his  unspeakable 
admiration. 

But  when  Florence,  taking  down  his  pipe  from  (he 
mantel-shelf  gave  it  into  his  hand,  and  entreated  him  to 
smoke  it,  the  good  captain  was  so  bewildered  by  her  at- 
tention that  lie  held  it  as  if  he  had  never  held  a  pipe  in 
all  his  life.  Likewise,  when  Florence,  looking  into  the 
little  cupboard,  took  out  the  case-bottle  and  mixed  a  per* 
feet  glass  of  grog  for  him,  unasked,  and  set  it  at  hia 
elbow,  his  ruddy  nose  turned  pale,  he  felt  himself  so 
gi-aced  and  honored.  When  he  had  filled  his  pipe  in  an 
absolute  revery  of  satisfaction,  Florence  lighted  it  for 
him  —  the  captain  having  no  power  to  object,  or  to  pre- 
vent her  —  and  resuming  her  place  on  the  old  sofa, 
looked  at  him  with  a  smile  so  loving  and  so  grateful,  a 
smile  that  showed  him  so  plainly  how  her  forlorn  heart 
turned  to  him,  as  her  face  did,  through  grief,  that  the 
smoke  of  the  pipe  got  into  the  captain's  throat  and  made 
him  cough,  and  got  into  the  captain's  eyes,  and  made 
them  blink  and  water. 

The  manner  in  which  the  captain  tried  to  make  be- 
Beve  that  the  cause  of  these  effects  lay  hidden  in  the 
pipe  itself,  and  the  way  in  which  he  looked  into  the 
bowl  for  it,  and  not  finding  it  there,  pretended  to  blow  it 
out  of  the  stem,  was  wonderfully  pleasant.  The  pipe 
soon  getting  into  better  condition,  he  fell  into  that  state 
of  repose  becoming  a  good  smoker ;  but  sat  with  hia 
eyes  fixed  on  Florence,  and,  with  a  beaming  placidity 
not  to  be  described,  and  stopping  every  now  and  then  to 
discharge  a   little  cloud  from   his  lips,  slowly  puffed  it 


62  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

forth,  as  if  it  were  a-  scroll  coming  out  of  his  moutL 
bearing  the  legend  "  Poor  Wal'r,  ay,  ay.  Di{,wndeA^ 
tt'n't  he  ? "  after  which  he  would  resume  his  smoking 
with  infinite  gentleness. 

Unlike  as  they  were  externally  —  and  there  could 
scarcely  be  a  more  decided  contrast  than  between  Flor- 
ence in  her  delicate  youth  and  beauty,  and  Captain  Cut- 
tle with  his  knobby  face,  his  great  broad  weather-beaten 
person,  and  his  gruff  voice  —  in  simple  innocence  of  the 
world's  ways  and  the  world's  perplexities  and  dangers, 
they  were  nearly  on  a  level.  No  child  could  have  sur- 
passed Captain  Cuttle  in  inexperience  of  everything  bul 
wind  and  weather;  in  simplicity,  credulity,  and  generous 
trustfulness.  Faith,  hope,  and  charity,  shared  his  whole 
nature  among  them.  An  odd  sort  of  romance,  perfectly 
unimaginative,  yet  perfectly  unreal,  and  subject  to  no 
considerations  of  worldly  prudence  or  practicability,  was 
the  only  partner  they  had  in  his  character.  As  the  cap- 
tain sat,  and  smoked,  and  looked  at  Florence,  God 
knows  what  impossible  pictures,  in  which  she  was  the 
principal  figure,  presented  themselves  to  his  mind. 
Equally  vague  and  uncertain,  though  not  so  sanguine, 
were  her  own  thoughts  of  the  life  before  her ;  and  even 
as  her  tears  made  prismatic  colors  in  the  light  she  gazed 
at,  so,  through  her  new  and  heavy  grief,  she  already  saw 
a  rainbow  faintly  shining  in  the  far-off  sky.  A  wander- 
ing princess  and  a  good  monster  in  a  story-book  might 
have  sat  by  the  fireside,  and  talked  as  Captain  Cuttle 
and  poor  Florence  thought  —  and  not  have  looked  very 
much  unlike  them. 

The  captain  was  not  troubled  with  the  faintest  idea  of 
any  difficulty  in  retaining  Florence,  or  of  any  responsi- 
Wlity  thereby  incurred      Having  put  up  the  shutters  and 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  63 

locked  the  door,  he  was  quite  satisfied  on  this  head.  If 
she  had  been  a  "Ward  in  Chancery,  it  would  have  made 
no  difference  at  all  to  Captain  Cuttle.  He  was  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  be  troubled  by  any  such  consider- 
ations. 

So  the  captain  smoked  his  pipe  very  comfortably,  and 
Florence  and  he  meditated  after  their  own  manner. 
When  the  pipe  was  out,  they  had  some  tea ;  and  then 
Florence  entreated  him  to  take  her  to  some  neighboring 
shop,  where  she  could  buy  the  few  necessaries  she  imme- 
diately wanted.  It  being  quite  dark,  the  captain  con- 
sented :  peeping  carefully  out  first,  as  he  had  been  wont 
to  do  in  his  time  of  hiding  from  Mrs.  MacStinger  ;  and 
arming  himself  with  his  large  stick,  in  case  of  an  appeal 
to  arms  being  rendered  necessary  by  any  unforeseen  cir- 
cumstance. 

The  pride  Captain  Cuttle  had,  in  giving  his  arm  to 
Florence,  and  escorting  her  some  two  or  three  hundred 
yards,  keeping  a  bright  look-out  all  the  time,  and  attract- 
ing the  attention  of  every  one  who  passed  them,  by  his 
great  vigilance  and  numerous  precautions,  was  extreme. 
Arrived  at  the  shop,  the  captain  felt  it  a  point  of  deli- 
cacy to  retire  during  the  making  of  the  purchases,  as 
they  were  to  consist  of  wearing  apparel ;  but  he  pre- 
viously deposited  his  tin  canister  on  the  counter,  and  in- 
forming the  young  lady  of  the  establishment  that  it  con 
tained  fourteen  pound  two,  req;iested  her,  in  case  that 
amount  of  property  should  not  be  sufficient  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  his  niece's  little  outfit — at  the  word  "niece" 
he  bestowed  a  most  significant  look  on  Florence,  accom- 
panied with  pantomime,  expressive  of  sagacity  and  mys- 
tery —  to  have  the  goodness  to  "  sing  out,"  and  he  would 
make  up  the  difference  from  his  pocket.     Casually  odd- 


64  DOMBEY    AND  SON. 

aulting  his  big  watch,  as  a  deep  means  of  dazzling  the 
establishment,  and  impressing  it  with  a  sense  of  property, 
the  captain  then  kissed  his  hook  to  his  niece,  and  retired 
outdide  the  window,  where  it  was  a  choice  sight  to  see 
his  great  face  looking;  in  from  time  to  time,  amcng  the 
eilks  and  ribl»ons,  with  an  obvious  misgiving  that  Flor- 
ence had  been  spirited  away  by  a  back-door. 

"  Dear  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Florence,  when  she  came 
out  with  a  parcel,  the  size  of  which  greatly  disappointed 
the  captain,  who  had  expected  to  see  a  porter  following 
with  a  bale  of  goods,  "  I  don't  want  this  money,  indeed. 
I  have  not  spent  any  of  it.     I  have  money  of  my  own." 

**  My  lady  lass,"  returned  the  baffled  captain,  looking 
straight  down  the  street  before  them,  "  take  care  on  it 
for  me,  will  you  be  so  good,  till  such  time  as  I  ask  ye 
for  it  ?  " 

"  May  I  put  it  back  in  its  usual  place,"  said  Florence, 
"  and  keep  it  there  ?  " 

The  captain  was  not  at  all  gratified  by  this  proposal, 
but  he  answered,  "  Ay,  ay,  put  it  anywheres,  my  lady 
lass,  so  long  as  you  know  where  to  find  it  again.  It  a'n't 
o'  no  use  to  me"  said  the  captain.  "  I  wonder  I  haven't 
chucked  it  away  afore  now." 

The  captain  was  quite  disheartened  for  the  moment, 
but  he  revived  at  the  first  touch  of  Florence's  arm,  and 
they  returned  with  the  same  precautions  as  they  had 
come  ;  the  captain  opening  the  door  of  the  little  Midship- 
man's berth,  and  diving  in,  with  a  suddenness  ^hich  his 
^eat  practice  only  could  have  taught  him.  During 
Florence's  slumber  in  the  morning,  he  had  engaged  the 
daughter  of  an  elderly  lady,  who  usually  sat  under  a 
olue  umbrella  in  Leadenhall-market,  selling  poultry,  to 
3ome  and  put  her  room  in  order,  and  render  her  anj 


DOMBEY  AND  SOX.  66 

little  services  she  required ;  and  this  damsel  now  appear- 
ing, Florence  found  everything  about  her  as  convenient 
and  orderly,  if  not  as  handsome,  as  in  the  terrible  dream 
ghe  had  once  called  Home. 

When  they  were  alone  again,  (he  captain  insisted  ca 
b(!r  eating  a  slice  of  dry  toast,  and  drinking  a  glass  t»f 
epiced  negus  (which  he  made  to  perfection)  ;  and,  en- 
couraging her  with  every  kind  word  and  inconsequential 
quotation  he  could  possibly  think  of,  led  her  up-stairs  to 
her  bedroom.  But  he  too  had  something  on  his  mind, 
and  was  not  easy  in  his  manner. 

"  Good-night,  dear  heart,"  said  Captain  Cuttle  to  her 
at  her  chamber-door. 

Florence  raised  her  lips  to  his  face,  and  kissed 
him. 

At  any  other  time  the  captain  would  have  been  over- 
balanced by  such  a  token  of  her  affection  and  gratitude ; 
but  now,  although  he  was  very  sensible  of  it,  he  looked 
in  her  face  with  even  more  uneasiness  than  he  had  testi- 
fied before,  and  seemed  unwilling  to  leave  her. 

"  Poor  Wal'r !  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Poor,  poor  Walter  ! "  sighed  Florence. 

"  Drownded,  a'n't  he  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  sighed. 

"  Good-night,  my  lady  lass ! "  said  Captain  Cuttle 
putting  out  his  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear,  kind  friend  I " 

But  the  captain  lingered  still. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  dear  Captain  Cuttle  ?"  said 
Florence,  easily  alarmed  in  her  then  state  of  mind. 
•  Have  you  anything  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  To  tell  you,  lady  lass  ! "  replied  the  captain,  meeting 
bee  eyes  in  confusion.  "  No,  no  ;  what  should  I  have  to 
vol.  IV  5 


66  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

tell  you,  pretty  !  You  don't  expect  as  Fve  got  any- 
thing good  to  tell  you,  sure  ? " 

''  No  !  "  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head. 

The  captain  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  repeated 
"  Nd,"  —  still  lingering  and  still  showing  embarrass- 
na^nt. 

"  Poor  Wal'r ! "  said  the  captain.  "  My  Wal'r,  as  I 
used  to  call  you !  Old  Sol  Gills's  nevy  !  Welcome  to 
all  as  knowed  you,  as  the  flowers  in  May  !  Where 
are  you  got  to,  brave  boy  !     Drpwnded,  a'n't  he  ?  " 

Concluding  his  apostrophe  with  this  abrupt  appeal  to 
Florence,  the  captain  bade  her  good-night,  and  descended 
the  stairs,  while  Florence  remained  at  the  top,  holding 
the  candle  out  to  light  him  down.  He  was  lost  in  the 
obscurity,  and,  judging  from  the  sound  of  his  receding 
footsteps,  was  in  the  act  of  turning  into  the  little  parlor, 
when  his  head  and  shoulders  unexpectedly  emerged 
again,  as  from  the  deep,  apparently  for  no  other  pur- 
pose than  to  repeat,  "  Drownded,  a'n't  .  he,  pretty  ?  " 
For  when  he  had  said  that  in  a  tone  of  tender  condo- 
lence, he  disappeared. 

Florence  was  very  sorry  that  she  should  unwittingly, 
though  naturally,  have  awaken^  these  associations  in 
the  mind  of  her  protector,  by  taking  refuge  there ;  and 
bitting  down  before  the  little  table  where  the  captain  had 
arranged  the  telescope  and  song-book,  and  those  other 
rarities,  thought  of  Walter,  and  of  all  that  was  connected 
with  him  in  the  past,  until  she  could  have  almost  wished 
to  lie  down  on  her  bed  and  fade  away.  But  in  her  lonely 
yearning  to  the  dead  whom  she  had  loved,  no  thought  of 
home  —  no  possibility  of  going  back  —  no  presentation 
of  it  as  yet  existing,  or  as  sheltering  her  father  —  once 
^tered  her  thoughts.     She  had  seen  the  murder  done. 


DOMBEY  ^JfD  SON.  67 

[y  the  last  lingering  natural  aspect  in  which  she  had 
cherished  him  through  so  much,  he  had  been  torn  out  of 
her  heart,  defaced,  and  slain.  The  thought  of  it  was  so 
appalling  to  her,  that  she  covered  her  eyes,  and  shrunk 
trembling  from  the  least  remembrance  of  the  deed,  or  of 
the  cruel  hand  that  did  it.  If  hec  fond  heart  could  havo 
held  iiis  image  after  that,  it  must  have  broken  ;  but  it 
could  not ;  and  the  void  was  filled  with  a  wild  dread,  that 
fled  from  all  confronting  with  its  shattered  fi"agments  — 
with  sucli  a  dread  as  could  have  risen  out  of  nothing  but 
the  depths  of  sucli»a  love,  so  wronged. 

She  dared  not  look  into  the  glass ;  for  the  sight  of  the 
darkening  mark  upon  her  bosom  made  her  afraid  of  her- 
Belf,  as  if  she  bore  about  her  something  wicked.  She 
covered  it  up,  with  a  hasty,  faltering  hand,  and  in  the 
dark  ;  and  laid  her  weary  head  down,  weeping 

The  captain  did  not  go  to  bed  for  a  long  time.  He 
walked  to  and  fro  in  the  shop,  and  in  the  little  parlor,  for 
H  full  houi',  and,  appearing  to  have  composed  himself  by 
that  exercise,  sat  down  with  a  grave  and  thoughtful  face, 
and  read  out  of  a  Prayer-book  the  forms  of  prayer  ap- 
pointed to  be  used  at  sea.  These  were  n6t  easily  dis- 
posed of;  the  good  captain  being  a  mighty  slow,  gruff 
reader,  and  frequently  stopping  at  a  hard  word  to  give 
himself  sucli  encouragement  as  "  Now,  my  lad  !  With 
a  will ! "  or,  "  Steady,  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  steady  !  "  which 
had  a  great  effect  in  helping  him  out  of  any  difficulty. 
Moreover,  his  spectacles  greatly  interfered  with  hie 
powers  of  vision.  But  notwithstanding  these  drawbacks, 
the  captain,  l)eing  heartily  in  earnest,  read  the  service 
to  the  very  last  line,  and  with  genuine  feeling  too ;  and 
apj)roving  of  it  very  much  when  he  had  done,  turned  in 
under  the  counter  (but  not  before  he  had  been  up-stairs, 


68  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  listened  at  Florence's  door),  with  a  serene  breast, 
and  a  most  benevolent  visage. 

The  captain  turned  out  several  times  in  the  course  of 
the  night,  to  assure  himself  that  his  charge  was  resting 
quietly  ;  and  once,  at  daybreak,  found  that  she  waa 
awake :  for  she  called .  to  know  if  it  were  he,  on  hear- 
ing footsteps  near  her  door. 

"  Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  replied  the  captain,  in  a  growl- 
ing whisper.     "Are  you  all  right,  di'mond?" 

Florence  thanked  him,  and  said  ""Yes." 

The  captain  could  not  lose  so  favorable  an  opportunity 
of  applying  his  mouth  to  the  key-hole,  and  calling  through 
it,  like  a  hoarse  breeze,  "  Poor  Wal'r !  Drownded,  a'n't 
he  ?  "  After  which  he  withdrew,  and  turning  in  again, 
slept  till  seven  o'clock. 

Nor  was  he  free  from  his  uneasy  and  embarrassed 
manner  all  that  day ;  though  Florence,  being  busy  with 
her  needle  in  the  little  parlor,  was  more  calm  and  tran- 
quil than  she  had  been  on  the  day  preceding.  Almost 
always  when  she  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  she 
observed  the  captain  looking  at  her,  and  thoughtfully 
stroking  his  chin  ;  and  he  so  often  hitched  his  arm-chair 
close  to  her,  as  if  he  were  going  to  say  something  very 
confidential,  and  hitched  it  away  again,  as  not  being  able 
to  make  up  his  mind  how  to  begin,  that  in  the  course  of 
the  day  he  cruised  completely  round  the  parlor  in  that 
frail  bark,  and  more  than  once  went  ashore  against  the 
wainscot  or  the  closet-door,  in  a  very  distressed  con- 
dition. 

It  was  not  until  the  twilight  that  Captain  Cuttle,  fairly 
dropping  anchor,  at  last,  by  the  side  of  Florence,  began 
to  talk  at  all  connectedly.  But  when  the  light  of  the  fire 
was  shining  on  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  little  room. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  69 

and  on  the  tea-board  and  the  cups  and  saucers  that  were 
ranged  upon  the  table,  and  on  her  calm  face  turned  tow 
ftrds  the  flame,  and  reflecting  it  in  the  tears  that  filled 
lier  eyes,  the  captain  broke  a  long  silence  thus  • 

*' You  never  was  at  sea,  my  own?" 

"  No,"  replied  Florence. 

"Ay,"  said  the  captain  reverentially;  "it's  a  almight » L 
element.  There's  wonders  in  the  deep,  my  pretty. 
Think  on  it  when  the  winds  is  roaring  and  the  waVes 
is  rowling.  Tliink  on  it  when  the  stormy  nights  is  so 
pitch  dark,"  said  the  captain,  soI»^,muly  holding  up  his 
hook,  "  as  you  can't  see  your  hand  afore  you,  except- 
ing when  the  wiwid  lightning  reweals  the  same ;  and 
when  you  drive,  drive,  drive  through  the  storm  and 
dark,  as  if  you  was  a  driving,  head  on,  to  the  world 
without  end,  evermore,  amen,  and  when  found  making 
a  note  of.  Them's  the  times,  my  beauty,  when  a  man 
may  say  to  his  messmate  (previously  a-overhauling  of 
the  wollume),  '  A  stiff  nor-wester's  blowing.  Bill ;  hark, 
don't  you  hear  it  roar  now  !  Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pitys 
all  unhappy  folks  ashore  now  ! '  "  Which  quotation,  as* 
particulai"ly  applicable  to  the  terrors  of  the  ocean,  the 
captain  delivered  in  a  most  impressive  manner,  conclud 
ing  with  a  sonorous  "  Stand  by ! " 

"  Were  you  ever  in  a  dreadful  storm  ?  "  asked  Flof 
ence. 

"  Why  ay,  my  lady  lass,  I've  seen  my  share  of  bad 
weather,"  said  the  captain,  tremulously  wiping  his  head, 
"  and  I've  had  my  share  of  knocking  about ;  but  —  but 
it  a'n't  of  myself  as  I  was  a-meaning  to  speak.  Our 
^'Mv  boy,"  di-awing  closer  to  her,  "  Wal'r,  darling,  as  was 
drovvnded." 

The   captain   spoke   in   such  a  trembling  voice,  and 


70  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

looked  at  Florence  with  a  face  so  pale  and  agirated,  that 
she  clung  to  his  hand  in  affright. 

"  Your  fa(!e  is  changed,"  cried  Florence.  "  You  are 
altered  in  a  moment.  What  is  it  ?  Dear  Captain  Cut- 
tle, it  tunis  me  cold  to  see  you  ! " 

**  What !  Lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain,  support- 
ing her  with  his  hand.  "  Don't  be  took  aback.  No, 
no  ?  All's  well,  all's  well,  my  dear.  As  I  was  a-saying 
— '  Wjil'r  —  he's  —  he's  drownded.     A'n't  he  ?  " 

Florence  looked  at  him  intently ;  her  color  came  and 
went ;  and  she  laid  her  InPind  upon  her  breast. 

"  There's  perils  and  dangers  on  the  deep,  my  beauty,** 
said  the  captain ;  "  and  over  many  a  brave  ship,  and 
many  and  many  a  bould  heart,  the  secret  waters  has 
closed  up,  and  never  told  no  tales.  But  there's  escapes 
upon  the  deep,  too,  and  sometimes  one  man  out  of  a 
score,  —  ah  !  maybe  out  of  a  hundred,  pretty,  —  has 
been  saved  by  the  mercy  of  God,  and  come  home  after 
being  give  over  for  dead,  and  told  of  all  hands  lost. 
I  —  I  know  a  story,  Heart's  Delight,"  stammered  the 
captain,  "  o'  this  natur,  as  was  told  to  me  once ;  and 
being  on  this  here  tack,  and  you  and  me  sitting  alone 
by  the  fire,  maybe  you'd  like  to  hear  me  tell  it.  Would 
you,  deary  ?  " 

Florence,  trembling  with  an  agitation  which  she  could 
not  control  or  understand,  involuntarily  followed  his 
glance,  which  went  behind  her  into  the  shop,  where  a 
iamp  was  burning.  The  instant  that  she  turned  her 
head,  the  captain  sprung  out  of  his  chair,  and  interposed 
his  hand. 

"  There's  nothing  there,  my  beauty,"  said  the  captain 
*  Don't  look  there  !  " 

**  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Florence. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  71 

Tiie  captain  murmured  something  about  its  btiug  dull 
Mint  w:iy,  and  about  tlie  fire  being  cheerful.  He  drew 
Ihe  door  ajar,  which  had  been  standing  open  until  now, 
nnd  resumed  his  seat.  Florence  followed  him  with  her 
&ye:^.  and  looked  intently  in  his  face. 

"  The  story  was  about  a  ship,  my  lady  lass,'*  began 
the  captain,  •'  as  sailed  out  of  the  Port  of  London,  with 
a  fair  wind  and  in  fair  weather,  bound  for  —  don't  be 
took  aback,  my  lady  lass,  she  was  only  out'ard  bound, 
pretty,  only  out'ard  bound  !  " 

The  expression  on  Florence's  face  alarmed  the  cap- 
tain, who  was  himself  very  hot  and  flurried,  and  showed 
scarcely  less  agitation  than  she  did. 

"  Shall  I  go  on,  Beauty  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Yes,  yes,  pray  !  "  cried  Florence. 

The  captain  made  a  gulp  as  if  to  get  down  something 
that  was  sticking  in  his  throat,  and  nervously  proceeded : 

"  That  there  unfort'nate  ship  met  with  such  foul 
weather,  out  at  sea,  as  don't  blow  once  in  twenty  year, 
my  darling.  There  was  hurricanes  ashore  as  tore  up 
forests  and  blovved  down  towns,  and  there  was  galea 
at  sea  in  them  latitudes,  as  not  the  stoutest  weasel 
ever  launched  could  live  in.  Day  arter  day  that  there 
unfort'nate  ship  behaved  noble,  I'm  told,  and  did  her 
duty  brave,  my  pretty,  but  at  one  blow  a'most  hei  f>al' 
warks  was  stove  in,  her  masts  and  rudder  carried  away, 
her  best  men  swept  overboard,  and  she  left  to  the  mercy 
of  the  storm  as  had  no  mercy  but  blowed  harder  and 
harder  yet,  while  the  waves  dashed  over  her,  and  beat 
her  in,  and  every  time  they  come  a-thundering  at  her, 
broke  her  like  a  shell.  Every  black  spot  in  evei-y 
mountain  of  water  that  rolled  away  was  a  bit  o'  tha 
ship's  life  or  a  living  man,  and  so  she  went  to  pieces 


12  DOMBEY  AND  SOU. 

Beauty,  and  no  grass  will  never  grow  upon  the  graves 
i)f  thera  as  manned  that  ship." 

''  They  were  not  all  lost !  "  cried  Florence.  "  Soma 
were  saved  !  —  Was  one  ?  " 

"•  Aboard  o'  that  there  unfort'nate  wessel,"  said  the 
captain,  ri&ing  from  his  chair,  and  clinching  his  hand 
with  prodigious  energy  and  exultation,  "  was  a  lad,  a 
gallant  lad  —  as  I've  heerd  tell  —  that  had  loved,  when 
he  was  a  l>oy,  to  read  and  talk  about  brave  actions  in 
shipwrecks  —  I've  heerd  him  !  I've  heerd  him  !  —  and 
he  remembered  of  'em  in  his  hour  of  need;  for  when 
the  stoutest  hearts  and  oldest  hands  was  hove  down,  he 
was  firm  and  cheery.  It  warn't  the  want  of  objects  to 
like  and  love  ashore  that  gave  him  courage,  it  was 
his  nat'ral  mind.  I've  seen  it  in  his  face,  when  he 
was  no  more  than  a  child  —  ay,  many  a  time !  —  and 
when  I  thought  it  nothing  but  his  good  looks,  bless 
him  !  " 

"  And  was  he  saved ! "  cried  Florence.  "  Was  he 
saved ! " 

"  That  brave  lad,"  said  the  captain,  —  "  look  at  me, 
pretty  !     Don't  look  round  "  — 

Florence  had  hardly  power  to  repeat,  "  Why  not  ? " 

"  Because  there's  nothing  there,  my  deary,"  said  the 
captain.  ^  Don't  be  took  aback,  pretty  creetur !  Don't, 
jbr  the  sake  of  Wal'r,  as  was  dear  to  all  on  us !  That 
thei«  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "arter  working  with  the 
best,  and  standing  by  the  faint-heailed,  and  never  mak- 
ing no  complaint  nor  sign  of  fear,  and  keeping  up  a 
Bpitit  in  all  hands  that  made  'em  honor  him  as  if  he'd 
been  a  admiral,  —  that  lad,  along  with  the  second-mate 
imd  one  seaman,  was  left,  of  all  the  beat  in'  hearts  that 
went  aboard  that  ship,  the  only  living  creeturs  —  lashed 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  78 

(O  &  fi-agment  of  the  wreck,  and  drifting  on  tlie  stormy 
Bfa." 

"  Were  they  saved  !  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Days  and  nights  they  drifted  on  them  endless  wa- 
ters," said  the  captain,  "  until  at  last  —  No!  Don't  look 
that  way,  pretty  !  —  a  sail  bore  down  upon  'em,  and  thej 
was,  by  the  Loid's  mercy,  took  aboard  :  two  living,  and 
one  dead." 

"  Which  of  them  was  dead  ?  "  cried  Florence. 

*  Not  the  lad  I  speak  on,"  said  the  captain. 

«  Thank  God  !  oh  thank  God  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  returned  the  captain  hurriedly.  "  Don't 
be  took  aback  !  A  minute  more,  my  lady  lass !  with  a 
good  heart !  —  aboard  that  ship,  they  went  a  long  voy- 
age, right  away  across  the  chart  (for  there  warn't  no 
touching  nowhere),  and  on  that  voyage  the  seaman  as 
was  picked  up  with  him  died.  But  he  was  spared, 
and"  — 

The  captain,  without  knowing  what  he  did,  had  cut  a 
slice  of  bread  from  the  loaf,  and  put  it  on  his  hook 
(which  was  his  usual  toasting-fork),  on  which  he  now 
held  it  to  the  fire  ;  looking  behind  Florence  with  great 
emotion  in  his  face,  and  sufifering  the  bread  to  blaze  and 
burn  like  fuel. 

"  Was  spared,"  repeated  Florence,  "  and  "  ?  — 

"  And  come  home  in  that  ship,"  said  the  captain,  still 
looking  in  the  same  direction,  *' and  —  don't  be  fright- 
ened, pretty  —  and  landed  ;  and  one  morning  come  cau- 
tiously to  his  own  door  to  take  a  obserwation,  knowing 
Uiat  his  friends  would  think  him  drownded,  when  he 
sheered  ofl'  at  the  unexpected  "  — 

**  At  the  unexpected  barking  of  a  dog  ?  "  cried  Flor 
once,  quickly. 


7  4  UOMBEY   AND   SON. 

''Yet,"  roared  the  captain.  "  Steady,  darling  !  cour« 
iL^^ .  Don't  look  round  yet.  See  there !  upon  tho. 
wall !  "  ^ 

There  was  the  shadow  of  a  man  upon  the  wall  close 
to  hei-.  She  started  up,  looked  round,  and  with  n  pierc 
ing  cry,  saw  Walter  Gay  behind  her.  t 

She  had  no  thought  of  him  but  as  a  brother,  a  brother 
rescued  from  the  grave ;  a  shipwrecked  brother  saved 
ind  at  her  side ;  and  rushed  into  his  arms.  In  all  the 
world,  he  seemed  to  be  her  hope,  her  comfort,  refuge, 
natural  protector.  "Take  care  of  Walter,  I  was  fond 
of  Walter  1  "  The  dear  remembrance  of  the  plaintive 
voice  that  said  so,  rushed  upon  her  soul,  like  music  in 
the  night.  "  Oh  welcome  home,  dear  Water.  Welcome 
to  this  sti-icken  breast !  "  She  felt  the  words,  although 
she  could  not  utter  them,  and  held  him  in  her  '  pure 
embrace. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  attempted  to  wipe 
his  head  with  the  blackened  toast  upon  his  hook ;  and 
finding  it  an  uncongenial  substance  for  the  purpose,  pu< 
it  into  the  crown  of  his  glazed  hat,  put  the  glazed  hat 
on  with  some  difficulty,  essayed  to  sing  a  verse  of  Lovely 
Peg,  broke  down  at  the  first  word,  and  retired  into  the 
shop,  whence  he  presently  came  back,  express,  with  a 
face  all  flushed  and  besmeared,  and '  the  starch  com 
pletely  taken  out  of  his  shirt-collar,  to  say  these  words. 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,  here  is  a  little  bit  of  property  as  i 
ehould  wish  to  make  over,  jintly ! " 

The  captain  hastily  produced  the  big  watch,  the  tta 
spoons,  the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  canister,  and  laying 
them  on  the  table,  swept  them  with  his  great  hand  into 
Walter'o  hat  ;  but  in  handing  that  singular  strong  box 
to  Walter,  he  was  so  overcome  again,  that  he  was  fain 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  76 

ro  make  another  retreat  into  the  shop,  and  absent  lura- 
self  for  a  longer  space  of  time  than  on  his  first  retire- 
ment. 

But  Walter  sought  him  out,  and  brought  him  back ; 
and  then  the  captain's  "  great  apprehension  was,  that 
Florence  would  suffer  from  this  new  shock.  He  felt  it 
so  earnestly,  that  he  turned  quite  rational,  and  positively 
interdicted  any  further  allusion  to  Walter's  adventure 
for  some  days  to  come.  Captain  Cuttle  then  became 
sufficiently  composed  to  relieve  himself  of  the  toast  in  his 
nat,  and  to  take  his  place  at  the  tea-board  ;  but  finding 
Walter's  grasp  upon  his  shoulder,  on  one  side,  and  Flor- 
ence whispering  her  tearful  congratulations  on  the  other, 
the  captain  suddenly  bolted  again,  and  was  missing  for  a 
good  ten  minutes. 

But  never  in  all  his  life  had  the  captain's  face  so  shone 
and  glistened,  as  when,  at  last,  he  sat  stationary  at  the 
tea-board,  looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  from 
Walter  to  Florence.  Nor  was  this  effect  produced  or  at 
all  heightened  by  the  immense  quantity  of  polishing  he 
had  administered  to  his  face  with  his  coat-sleeve  during 
the  last  half-hour.  It  was  solely  the  effect  of  his  internal 
emotions.  There  was  a  glory  and  delight  within  the 
captain  that  spread  itself  over  his  whole  visage,  and 
made  a  perfect  illumination  there. 

The  pride  with  which  the  captain  looked  upon  the 
bronzed  cheek  and  the  courageous  eyes  of  his  recoveretl 
boy :  with  which  he  saw  the  generous  fervor  of  his 
youth,  and  all  its  frank  and  hopeful  qualities,  shining 
once  more,  in  the  fresh,  wholesome  manner,  and  the  ar- 
ilent  face :  would  have  kindled  something  of  this  light  in 
his  countenance.  The  admiration  and  sympathy  with 
vhich  he  turned  his  eyes  on    Florf^noe,  who-^e  beauty 


76  DCMBET  AND  SON. 

grace,  and  innocence  could  have  won  no  truet  or  more 
zealous  champion  than  himself,  would  have  had  an  nqual 
influence  upon  him.  But  ihe  fulness  of  the  glow  he  shod 
around  him  could  only  have  been  engendered  in  his  con- 
templation of  the  two  together,  and  in  all  the  fanci<M 
springing  out  of  that  associalion,  that  came  sparkling  ard 
beaming  into  his  head,  and  danced  about  it. 

How  they  talked  of  poor  old  Uncle  Sol,  and  dwelt  oo 
every  little  circumstance  relating  to  his  disappearance 
how  their  joy  was  moderated  by  the  old  man's  absence 
and  by  the  misfortunes  of  Florence ;  how  they  released 
Diogenes,  whom  the  captain  had  decoyed  up-stairs  some 
time  before,  lest  he  should  bark  again:  the  captain, 
though  he  was  in  one  continual  flutter,  and  made  many 
more  short  plunges  into  the  shop,  fully  comprehended. 
But  he  no  more  dreamed  that  Walter  looked  on  Flor- 
ence, as  it  were,  from  a  new  and  far-off  place ;  that 
while  his  eyes  often  sought  the  lovely  face,  they  seldom 
met  its  open  glance  of  sisterly  affection,  but  withdrew 
themselves  when  hers  were  raised  towards  him  ;  than  he 
believed  that  it  was  Walter's  ghost  who  sat  beside  lam. 
He  saw  them  there  together  in  their  youth  and  beauty, 
and  he  knew  the  story  of  their  younger  days,  and  he  Viad 
no  inch  of  room  beneath  his  great  blue  waistcoat  for  a.iy- 
thing  save  admiration  of  such  a  pair,  and  gratitude  for 
their  being  reunited. 

They  sat  thus,  until  it  grew  late.  The  captain  wcnld 
have  been  content  to  sit  so,  for  a  week.  But  Walter 
rose,  to  take  leave  for  the  night. 

"Going,  Walter!"  said  Florence.     "Where?" 

"  He  slings  his  hammock  for  the  present,  lady  lasu," 
laid  Captain  Cuttle,  "  round  at  Brogley's.  Within  h»jL 
Heart's  Delight." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  77 

"  I  am  the  cause  of  your  going  away,  Walter,"  said 
Florence.     "  There  is  a  houseless  sister  in  your  place." 

"  Dear  'Miss  Dombey,"  replied  Walter,  hesitating  — 
'*  if  it  is  not  too  bold  to  call  you  so  !  "  — 

—  "  Walter !  "  she  exclaimed,  surprised. 

"  If  anything  could  make  me  happier  in  being  allowed 
to  see  and  speak  to  you,  would  it  not  be  the  discovery 
that  I  had  any  means  on  earth  of  doing  you  a  moment's 
service  ?  Where  would  I  not  go,  what  would  I  not  do, 
for  your  sake  ?  " 

She  smiled,  and  called  him  brother. 

"  You  are  so  changed,"  said  Walter  — 

"  I  changed  ! "  she  interrupted. 

—  "  To  me,"  said  Walter,  softly,  as  if  he  were  think- 
ing aloud,  "  changed  to  me.  I  left  you  such  a  child,  and 
find  you  —  oh  !    something  so  different "  — 

"  But  your  sister,  Walter.  You  have  not  forgotten 
what  we  promised  to  each  other,  when  we  parted  ?  " 

"  Forgotten  !  "     But  he  said  no  more. 

"  And  if  you  had  —  if  suffering  and  danger  had  driven 
it  from  your  thoughts  —  which  it  has  not  —  you  would 
remember  it  now,  Walter,  when  you  find  me  poor  and 
abandoned,  with  no  home  but  this,  and  no  friends  but  the 
two  who  hear  me  speak ! " 

"I  would!     Heaven  knows  I  would  ! "  said  Waltei. 

"  Oh,  Walter,"  exclaimed  Florence,  through  her  sobs 
and  tears.  "  Dear  Brother !  Show  me  some  way 
through  the  world  —  some  humble  path  that  I  may  take 
alone,  and  labor  in,  and  sometimes  think  of  you  as  one 
who  wUl  protect  and  care  for  me  as  for  a  sister !  Oh, 
help  me  Walter,  for  I  need  help  so  much !'' 

"  Miss  Dombey !  Florence !  I  would  die  to  help 
70U.  But  your  friends  are  proud  and  rich.  Yout 
Either  "  — 


78  DOMBEr   AND   SON. 

"  No,  no  !  "V\  jilter  !  "  She  shrieked,  and  pirt  aer 
hands  up  to  her  head,  in  an  attitude  of  terror  that 
transfixed  him  v\  here  he  stood-  "  Don't  say  that 
word !  " 

He  never,  fi-om  fiiat  hour,  forgot  the  voice  and  look 
with  whicli  she  stopped  him  at  the  name.  He  felt  tlia^ 
if  he  wer<j  to  live  a  hundred  years,  he  never  could  for- 
jet  it. 

Somewhere  —  anywhere  —  hut  never  home!  All 
>ast,  all  gone,  all  lost,  and  broken  up !  The  whole  his- 
ory  of  her  untold  slight  and  suffering  was  in  the  cry 
and  look ;  and  he  felt  he  never  could  forget  it,  and  he 
aever  did. 

She  laid  her  gentle  feice  upon  tlie  captain's  shoulders 
and  related  how  and  why  she  had  fled.  If  every  sor 
rowing  tear  she  shed  in  doing  so,  had  been  a  curse  upon 
the  head  of  him  she  never  named  or  blamed,  it  would 
have  been  better  for  him,  Walter  thought,  with  awe, 
tlian  to  be  renounced  out  of  such  a  strength  and  might 
of  love. 

'•  There,  precious  !  "  said  the  captain,  when  she  ceaseil ; 
and  deep  attention  the  captain  had  paid  to  her  while  she 
spoke ;  listening,  with  his  glazed  liat  all  awry,  and  L's 
mouth  wide  open.  "  Awast,  awast,  my  eyes !  AVal'r, 
dear  lad,  sheer  off  for  to-night,  and  leave  the  pretty  one 
10  me !  " 

Walter  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  put  it  to  his 
lips,  and  kissed  it.  He  knew  now  that  she  was,  indeeti, 
a  homeless  wandering  fugitive ;  but,  richer  to  him  so, 
than  in  all  the  wealth  and  pride  of  her  right  station,  she 
seemed  farther  off  than  even  on  the  height  that  had 
made  him  giddy  in  his  boyish  dreams. 

Captain  Cuttle,  perplexed  by  no  such  meditations, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  79 

guarded  Florence  to  her  room,  and  watched  at  intervals 
upon  the  charmed  ground  outside  her  door  —  for  such  it 
truly  was  to  him  —  until  he  felt  sufficiently  easy  in  his 
mind  about  her,  to  turn  in  under  the  counter.  On 
abandoning  his  watch  for  that  purpose,  he  could  not 
help  calling  once,  rapturously,  through  the  key -hole, 
"  Drownded.  A'n't  he,  pretty  ?  *'  —  or,  when  lie  got 
down-stairs,  making  another  trial  at  that  verse  of  Lovely 
Peg.  But  it  stuck  in  his  throat  somehow,  and  he  could 
make  nothing  of  it ;  so  he  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that 
old  Sol  Gills  was  married  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  kejit 
prisoner  by  that  lady  in  a  secret  chamber  on  a  short 
ftUowance  of  victuals. 


DUMliliir   AND  SON. 


CHAPTER   L. 

MR.   TOOTS'S   COMPLAINT. 

There  was  an  empty  room  above  stairs  at  the 
Wooden  Midshipman's,  which,  in  days  of  yore,  had  heep 
Walter's  bedroom.  Walter,  rousing  up  the  captain  be- 
times in  the  morning,  proposed  that  they  should  carry 
thither  such  furniture  out  of  the  little  parlor  as  would, 
grace  it  best,  so  that  Florence  might  take  possession  of 
it  when  she  rose.  As  nothing  could  be  more  agreeable 
to  Captain  Cuttle  than  making  himself  very  red  and 
"ihort  of  breath  in  such  a  cause,  he  turned  to  (as  he 
iiimself  said)  with  a  will ;  and,  in  a  couple  of  hours, 
this  garret  was  transformed  into  a  species  of  land-cabin, 
adorned  with  all  the  choicest  movables  out  of  the 
parlor,  inclusive  even  of  the  Tartar  fiigate,  which  the 
captaui  hung  up  over  the  chimney-piece  with  such  ex- 
In-rae  delight,  that  he  could  do  nothing  for  half  an 
hour  afterwards  but  walk  backward  from  it,  lost  in 
admiration. 

The  captain  could  be  induced  by  no  persuasion  of 
Walter's  to  wind  up  the  big  watch,  or  to  take  back 
<!ie  canister,  or  to  touch  the  sugar-tongs  and  tea-spoons. 
"  No,  no,  my  lad  ;  "  was  the  captain's  invariable  reply 
to  any  solicitation  of  the  kind,  "  I've  made  that  there 
little  property  over,  jintly."  These  words  he  repeated 
with  great  unction  and  gravity,  evidently  believing  that 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  8J 

they  had  the  virtue  of  an  Act  of  Parliament,  and  that 
unless  he  committed  himself  by  some  new  admission  of 
ownership,  no  Haw  could  be  found  in  such  a  form  of 
conveyance. 

It  was  an  advantage  of  the  new  arrangement,  that 
besides  the  greater  seclusion  it  afforded  Florence,  it 
admitted  of  the  Midshipman  being  restored  to  his  usual' 
post  of  observation,  and  also  of  the  shop  shutters  being 
taken  down.  The  latter  ceremony,  however  little  im- 
portance the  unconscious  captain  attached  to  it,  was  not 
wholly  superfluous  ;  for,  on  the  previous  day,  so  much 
excitement  had  been  occasioned  in  the  neighborhood,  by 
the  shutters  remaining  unopened,  that  the  Instrument- 
maker's  house  had  been  honored  with  an  unusual  share 
of  public  observation,  and  had  been  intently  stared  at  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  by  groups  of  hungry  gazers, 
at  any  time  between  sunrise  and  sunset.  The  idlers 
and  vagabonds  had  been  particularly  interested  in  the 
captain's  fate  ;  constantly  grovelling  in  the  mud  to  apply 
their  eyes  to  the  cellar-grating,  under  the  shop-window, 
and  delighting  their  imaginations  with  the  fancy  that 
they  could  see  a  piece  of  his  coat  as  he  hung  in  a  cor- 
ner; though  this  settlement  of  him  was  stoutly  disputed 
by  an  opposite  faction,  who  were  of  opinion  that  he  lay 
murdered  with  a  hammer,  on  the  stairs.  It  was  not 
without  exciting  some  discontent,  therefore,  that  the  suIh 
ject  of  these  rumors  was  seen  early  in  the  morning 
standing  at  his  sliop-door  as  hale  and  hearty  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened  ;  and  the  beadle  of  that  quarter,  a 
man  of  an  ambitious  character,  who  had  expected  to 
have  the  distinction  of  being  present  at  the  breaking 
open  of  the  door,  and  of  giving  evidence  in  full  uniform 
before  the  coroner,  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  an  oppo- 

VOL.    IV.  6 


B2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

site  neighbor,  that  the  chap  in  the  glazed  hat  had  better 
not  try  it  on  there  —  without  more  particularly  mention- 
ing what  —  and  further,  that  he,  the  beadle  would  keep 
his  eye  upon   him. 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  musing,  when  they 
Btood  resting  from  their  labors  at  the  shop-door,  looking 
down  the  old  familiar  street ;  it  being  still  early  in 
the  morning ;  "  nothing  at  all  of  Uncle  Sol,  in  all  that 
time  !  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  shak- 
ing his  head. 

"  Grone  in  search  of  me,  dear,  kind  old  man,"  said 
Walter ;  "  yet  never  write  to  you  !  But  why  not  ?  He 
says,  in  effect,  in  this  packet  that  you  gave  me,"  taking 
the  paper  from  his  pocket,  which  had  been  opened  in 
the  presence  of  the  enlightened  Bunsby,  "  that  if  you 
never  hear  from  him  before  opening  it,  you  may  believe 
him  dead.  Heaven  forbid  !  But  you  would  have  heard 
of  him,  even  if  he  were  dead !  Some  one  would  have 
written,  surely,  by  his  desire,  if  he  could  not ;  and  have 
said,  '  on  such  a  day,  there  died  in  my  house,'  '  or 
under  my  care,'  or  so  forth,  *  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  of  Lon- 
don, who  left  this  last  remembrance  and  this  last  request 
to  you.' " 

The  captain,  who  had  never  climbed  to  such  a  clear 
height  of  probability  before,  was  greatly  impressed  by  the 
wide  prospect  it  opened,  and  answered,  with  a  thought- 
ful shake  of  his  head,  "  Well  said,  my  lad ;  wery  well 
gaid." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  this,  or,  at  least,"  said  Wal- 
ter, coloring,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  one  thing  and 
Another,  all  through  a  sleepless  night,  and  I  cannot  be- 
lieve. Captain  Cuttle,  but  that  my  Uncle  Sol  (Lord  bless 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  98 

him !)  is  alive,  and  will  return.  I  don't  so  much  won- 
der at  his  going  away,  because  leaving  out  of  consider- 
ation tliat  spice  of  the  marvellous  which  was  always 
in  his  character,  and  his  great  affection  for  me,  before 
which  every  other  consideration  of  his  life  became  noth- 
ing, as  no  one  ought  to  know  so  well  as  I  who  hac' 
the  best  of  fiathers  in  him,"  —  Walter's  voice  was  indis- 
tinct and  husky  here,  and  he  looked  away,  along  the 
street,  —  "leaving  that  out  of  consideration,  I  say,  I  have 
often  read  and  lieard  of  people  who,  having  some  near 
and  dear  relative,  who  was  supposed  to  be  shipwrecked 
at  sea,  have  gone  down  to  live  on  that  part  of  the  sea- 
shore where  any  tidings  of  the  missing  sliip  might  be 
expected  to  arrive,  though  only  an  hour  or  two  sooner 
than  elsewhere,  or  have  even  gone  upon  her  track  to 
the  pl'ice  whither  she  was  bound,  as  if  their  going  would 
create  intelligence.  I  think  I  should  do  such  a  thing 
myself,  as  soon  as  another,  or  sooner  than  many,  per- 
haps. ]bui  W'hy  my  uncle  shouldn't  write  to  you,  when 
he  so  cleariy  intended  to  do  so,  or  how  he  should  die 
abroad,  and  you  not  know  it  through  some  other  hand, 
I  cannot  make  out." 

Captain  Cuttle  observed  with  a  shake  of  his  head, 
that  Jack  Bunsby  himself  hadn't  made  it  out,  and  that 
he  was  a  man  as  could  give  a  pretty  taut  opinion 
too. 

"  If  my  uncle  had  been  a  heedless  young  man,  likely 
to  be  entrapped  by  jovial  com[)any  to  some  drinking- 
place,  where  he  was  to  be  got  rid  of  for  the  sake  of 
what  money  he  might  have  about  him,"  said  Walter 
"or  if  he  had  been  a  reckless  sailor,  going  ashore  with 
two  or  three  months'  pay  in  his  pocket,  I  could  under- 
»tand    his    disappearing,  and    leaving   no  trace    behind 


84  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

But,  being  what  he  was  —  and  is,  I  hope  —  I  can't  be 
lieve  it." 

"  Wal'r  my  lad,"  inquired  the  captain,  wistfully  ey- 
ing hira  as  he  pondered  and  pondered,  "  what  do  you 
make  of  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  "  I  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  it.  I  suppose  he  never  has  written  1 
There  is  no  doubt  about  that  ?  " 

"  If  so  be  as  Sol  Gills  wrote,  my  lad,"  replied  the 
captain,  argumentatively,  "  where's  his  despatch?" 

"  Say  tliHt  he  intrusted  it  to  some  private  hand,"  sug- 
gested Walter,  "  and  that  it  has  been  forgotten  or  care- 
lessly thrown  aside,  or  lost.  Even  that  is  more  probable 
to  me,  than  the  other  event.  In  short,  I  not  only  cannot 
bear  to  contemplate  that  other  event,  Captain  Cuttle, 
but  I  can't,  and  won't." 

"  Hope,  you  see,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  sagely, 
"  Hope.  It's  that  as  animates  you.  Hope  is  a  buoy, 
for  which  you  overhaul  your  Little  Warbler,  sentimen- 
tal diwision,  but  Lord,  my  lad,  like  any  other  buoy,  it 
only  floats ;  it  can't  be  steered  nowhere.  Along  with 
the  figure-head  of  Hope,"  said  the  captain,  "  there's  a 
anchor ;  but  what's  the  good  of  ray  having  a  anchor,  if 
I  can't  find  no  bottom  to  let  it  go  in." 

Captain  Cuttle  said  this  rather  in  his  character  of 
a  sagacious  citizen  and  householder,  bound  to  impart  a 
morsel  from  his  stores  of  wisdom  to  an  inexperienced 
youth,  than  in  his  own  proper  person.  Indeed,  his 
face  was  quite  luminous  as  he  spoke,  with  new  hope, 
caught  from  AValter ;  and  he  appropriately  concluded 
by  slapping  him  on  the  back  ;  and  saying,  M'ith  enthu- 
siasm, "  Hooroar,  my  lad !  Indiwidually,  I'm  o*  youi 
opinion." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  85 

Walter,  with  his  cheerful  laugh,  returned  the  saluta- 
tion, and  said  : 

"  Only  one  word  more  about  my  uncle  at  present, 
Captain  Cuttle.  I  suppose  it  is  impossible  that  he  can 
have  written  in  the  ordinary  course —  by  mail- packet, 
Ql  ship-letter,  you  understand  "  — 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain  approvingly. 

—  "  And  that  you  have  missed  the  letter,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Why,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  turning  his  eyes  upon 
bJm  with  a  faint  approach  to  a  severe  expression,  "  a'n't 
I  been  on  the  look-out  for  any  tidings  of  that  man  o' 
science,  old  Sol  Gills,  your  uncle,  day  and  night,  ever 
since  I  lost  him  ?  A'n't  my  heart  been  heavy  and  watch- 
ful always,  along  of  him  and  you  ?  Sleeping  and  wak- 
ing, a'n't  I  been  upon  my  post,  and  wouldn't  I  have 
scorned  to  quit  it  while  this  here  Midshipman  held 
together ! " 

'*  Yes,  Captain  Cuttle,"  replied  Walter,  grasping  hig 
hand,  "  I  know  you  would,  and  I  know  how  faithfi'l 
and  earnest  all  you  say  and  feel  is.  I  am  sure  of  it. 
You  don't  doubt  that  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  I  am  that 
my  foot  is  again  upon  this  door-step,  or  that  I  again  have 
hold  of  this  true  hand.     Do  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  captain,  with  his  beam- 
ing face. 

"  I'll  hazard  no  more  conjectures,  said  Walter,  fer- 
vently shaking  the  hard  hand  of  the  captain,  who  shook 
his  with  no  less  good-will.  "  All  I  will  add  is.  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  touch  my  uncle's  possessions,  Captain 
Cuttle  !  Everything  that  he  left  here,  shall  remain  in 
the  care  of  the  truest  of  stewards  and  kindest  of  men  — • 
and  if  his  name  is  not  Cuttle  he  has  no  name  Now 
best  of  friends,  about — Miss  Dombey." 


b6  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

There  was  a  change  in  Walter's  manner,  as  he  came  to 
these  two  words  ;^and  when  he  uttered  them,  all  his  con- 
fidence and  cheerfulness  appeared  to  have  deserted  him. 

"  I  thought,  before  Miss  Dombey  stopped  me  when  I 
Bpoke  of  her  father  last  night,"  said  Walter,  —  "  you 
remember  how  ?  " 

The  captain  well  remembered,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Walter,  "  before  that,  that  we  had 
but  one  hard  duty  to  perform,  and  that  it  was,  to  prevail 
upon  her  to  communicate  with  her  friends,  and  to  return 
home." 

The  captain  muttered  a  feeble  "  Awast ! "  or  a  "  Stand 
by  !  "  or  something  or  other,  equally  pertinent  to  the  oc- 
casion ;  but  it  was  rendered  so  extremely  feeble  by  the 
total  discomfiture  with  which  he  received  this  announce- 
ment, that  what  it  was,  is  mere  matter  of  conjecture. 

"  But,"  said  Walter,  "  that  is  over.  I  think  so  no  lon- 
ger. I  would  sooner  be  put  back  again  upon  that  piece 
of  wreck,  on  which  I  have  so  often  floated,  since  my 
preservation,  in  my  dreams,  and  there  left  to  drift,  and 
drive,  and  die  !  " 

"  Hooroar,  my  lad  !  "  exclaimed  the  captain,  in  a  burst 
of   uncontrollable   satisfaction-      *'  Hooroar  !    Hooroar 
Hooroar  !  " 

"  To  think  that  she,  so  young,  so  good,  and  beautiful," 
eaid  Walter,  "  so  delicately  brought  up,  and  born  to  such 
a  different  fortune,  should  strive  with  the  rough  world  1 
But  we  have  seen  the  gulf  that  cuts  off  all  behind  her, 
though  no  one  but  herself  can  know  how  deep  it  is ;  and 
*iiere  is  no  return." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  quite  understanding  this, 
greatly  approved  of  it,  and  observed,  in  a  tone  of  strong 
"orroboration,  that  the  wind  was  right  abaft- 


DOMBET  AlH)  SON.  87 

"  She  ought  not  to  be  alone  here ;  ought  she,  Captain 
Cuttle  ?  "  said  Walter,  anxiously. 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  after  a  little  sa- 
gacious consideration.  "  I  don't  know.  You  being  here 
to  keep  her  company,  you  see,  and  you  two  being 
jjatly"  — 

"Dear  Captain  Cuttle!"  remonstrated  Walter.  "I 
being  here  !  Miss  Dombey,  in  her  guileless  innocent 
heart,  regards  me  as  her  adopted  brother ;  but  what 
would  the  guile  and  guilt  of  my  heart  be,  if  I  pretended 
to  believe  that  I  had  any  right  to  approach  her,  familiar- 
ly, in  that  character  —  if  I  pretended  to  forget  that  I 
am  bound,  in  honor,  not  to  do  it ! " 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  hinted  the  captain,  with  some  re 
vival  of  his  discomfiture,  "  a'n't  there  no  other  character 
as"  — 

"  Oh  !  "  returned  Walter,  "  would  you  have  me  die  in 
her  esteem  —  in  such  esteem  as  hers  —  and  put  a  veil 
between  myself  and  her  angel's  face  forever,  by  taking 
advantage  of  her  being  here  for  refuge,  so  trusting,  and 
so  unprotected,  to  endeavor  to  exalt  myself  into  her 
lover  !  What  do  I  say  ?  There  is  no  one  in  the  world 
who  would  be  more  opposed  to  me  if  I  could  do  so,  than 
you." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  drooping  more  and 
more,  "  prowiding  as  there  is  any  just  cause  or  impedi- 
ment why  two  persons  should  not  be  jined  together  in 
the  house  of  bondage,  for  which  you'll  overhaul  the 
place  and  make  a  note,  I  hope  I  should  declare  it  as 
promised  and  wowed  in  the  banns.  So  there  a'n't  NO 
other  character  ;  a'n't  there,  ray  lad  !  " 

Walter  briskly  waved  his  hand  in  the  negative. 

♦'  Well,  my  lad,"  growled  the  captain  slowly,  "  I  won't 


88  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

deny  but  what  I  find  myself  wery  much  down  by  ihe 
bead,  along  o'  this  here,  or  but  what  I've  gone  clean 
about.  But  as  to  Lady-lass,  Wal'r,  mind  you,  wot's  re- 
spect and  duty  to  her  is  respect  and  duty  in  my  articles, 
howsumever  disapinting ;  and  therefore  I  follows  in  your 
wake,  my  lad,  and  feel  as  you  are,  no  doubt,  acting  up  to 
yourself.  And  there  a'n't  no  other  character,  a'n't 
there ! "  said  the  captain,  musing  over  the  ruins  of  his 
fallen  castle  with  a  very  despondent  face. 

*'  Now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  starting  a  fresh 
point  with  a  gayer  air,  to  cheer  the  captain  up  —  but 
nothing  could  do  that ;  he  was  too  much  concerned  —  "I 
think  we  should  exert  ourselves  to  find  some  one  who 
would  be  a  proper  attendant  for  Miss  Dombey  while  she 
remains  here,  and  who  may  be  trusted.  None  of  her 
relations  may.  It's  clear  Miss  Dombey  feels  that  they 
are  all  subservient  to  her  father.  What  has  become  of 
Susan  ?  " 

"  The  young  woman  ?  "  returned  the  captain.  "  It's 
my  belief  as  she  was  sent  away  again  the  will  of  Heart's 
Delight.  I  made  a  signal  for  her  when  Lady-lass  first 
come,  and  she  rated  of  her  wery  high,  and  said  she  had 
been  gone  a  long  time." 

"  Then,"  said  Walter,  "  do  you  ask  Miss  Dombey 
where  she's  gone,  and  we'll  try  to  find  her.  The  morn- 
ing's getting  on,  and  Miss  Dombey  will  soon  be  rising. 
You  are  her  be^t  friend.  Wait  for  her  up-stairs,  and 
leave  me  to  take  care  of  all  down  here." 

The  captain,  very  crestfallen  indeed,  echoed  the  sigh 
with  which  Walter  said  this,  and  complied.  Florence 
was  delighted  with  her  new  room,  anxious  to  see  Walter, 
%nd  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  greeting  her  old  friend 
Snsan.     But   Florence  could  not  say  where  Susan  wa« 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  89 

gone,  except  that  it  was  in  Essex,  and  no  one  could  say, 
she  remembered,  unless  it  were  Mr.  Toots. 

With  this  information  the  melancholy  captain  returned 
Ic)  Walter,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that  Mr.  Toots 
was  the  young  gentleman  whom  he  had  encountered  on 
the  door-step,  and  that  he  was  a  friend  of  his,  and  that 
he  was  a  young  gentleman  of  property,  and  thai  he 
hopelessly  adored  Miss  Dombey.  The  captain  also  re- 
lated how  the  intelligence  of  Walter's  supposed  fate  had 
first  made  him  acquainted  with  Mr.  Toots,  and  how 
there  was  solemn  treaty  and  compact  between  them,  that 
Mr.  Toots  should  be  mute  upon  the  subject  of  his 
love. 

The  question  then  was,  whether  Florence  could  trust 
Mr.  Toots  ;  and  Florence  saying,  with  a  smile,  "  Oh,  yes, 
with  her  whole  heart ! "  it  became  important  to  find  out 
where  Mr.  Toots  lived.  This  Florence  didn't  know,  and 
the  captain  had  forgotten  ;  and  the  captain  was  t«Uing 
Walter,  in  the  little  parlor,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to 
be  there  soon,  when  in  came  Mr.  Toots  himself. 

'•  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  rushing  into  the  par- 
lor without  any  ceremony,  "  I'm  in  a  state  of  mind  bor- 
dering on  distraction  !  " 

Mr.  Toots  had  discharged  those  words,  as  from  a 
mortar,  before  he  observed  "Walter,  whom  he  recog- 
nized with  wha*  may  be  described  as  a  chuckle  of  mis- 
ery. 

"  You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  holding  his 
forehead,  "  but  I'm  at  present  in  that  state  that  my  brain 
is  going,  if  not  gone,  and  anything  approaching  to  pohte- 
ness  in  an  individual  so  situated  wculd  be  a  hollow  mock- 
ery. Captain  Gills,  I  beg  to  request  the  favor  of  a  pri- 
vate interview." 


80  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  Why,  brother,"  returned  the  captain,  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  "  you  are  the  man  as  we  was  on  the  look-out 
for." 

"  Oil,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "what  a  look-cut 
that  must  be  of  which  /am  the  object!  I  haven't  dared 
to  shave,  I'ra  in  that  rash  state.  I  haven't  had  my 
clothes  brushed.  My  hair  is  matted  together.  I  told 
the  Chicken  that  if  he  offered  to  clean  ray  boots,  I'd 
jtretch  him  a  Corpse  before  me ! " 

All  these  indications  of  a  disordered  mind  were  veri- 
fied in  Mr.  Toots's  appearance,  which  was  wild  and  sav- 
age. 

"  See  here,  brother,"  said  the  captain.  "  This  here's 
old  Sol  Gills's  nevy  Wal'r.  Him  as  was  supposed  to 
have  perished  at  sea," 

Mr.  Toots  took  his  hand  from  his  forehead,  and  stared 
At  Walter. 

"  Good  gracious  me ! "  stammered  Mr.  Toots,  "  What 
a  complication  of  misery !  How-de-do  ?  I  —  I  —  I'm 
afraid  you  must  have  got  very  wet.  Captain  Gills,  will 
you  allow  me  a  word  in  the  shop  ?  " 

He  took  the  captain  by  the  coat,  and  going  out  with 
him,  whispered : 

"  That  then.  Captain  Gills,  is  the  party  you  spoke  of, 
when  you  said  that  he  and  Miss  Dombey  were  made  for 
one  another  ?  " 

"  Why,  ay,  my  lad,"  replied  the  disconsolate  captain ; 
•*  I  was  of  that  mind  once." 

"  And  at  this  time ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Toots,  with  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  again.  "  Of  all  others !  —  a  hated 
rival !  At  least,  he  a'n't  a  hated  rival,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
•topping  short,  on  second  thoughts,  and  taking  away  his 
hand ;  "  what  should  I  hate  him  for  ?     No.     If  iry  i.f- 


DOMBET   AND  SON.  91 

fection  has  been   truly  disinterested.  Captain    Gills,  let 
me  prove  it  now  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots  shot  back  abruptly  into  the  parlor,  and  said, 
wringing  Walter  by  the  hand : 

"  How-de-do  ?  I  hope  you  didn't  take  any  cold.  I  — 
1  shall  be  very  glad  if  you'll  give  me  the  pleasure  of 
your  acquaintance.  I  wish  you  many  happy  returns  of 
the  day.  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
warming  as  he  became  better  acquainted  with  Walter'i 
face  and  figure,  "  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  ! " 

"  Tliank  you  heartily,"  said  Walter.  "  I  couldn't  de- 
sire a  more  genuine  and  genial  welcome." 

"  Couldn't  you,  though  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  still  shaking 
his  hand.  "  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you.  How-de-do  ?  I  hope  you  left  everybody  quite 
well  over  the  —  that  is,  upon  the  —  I  mean  wherever 
you  came  from  last,  you  know." 

All  these  good  wishes,  and  better  intentions,  Walter 
responded  to  manfully. 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "I  should  wish  to 
be  strictly  honorable ;  but  I  trust  I  may  be  allowed  now, 
to  allude  to  a  certain  subject  that  "  — 

"Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.  "Fre<sly, 
freely." 

"Then,  Captain  Gills,'"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "and  Lieu- 
tenant Walters,  are  you  aware  that  the  most  dreadful 
circumstances  have  been  happening  at  Mr.  Dombey's 
house,  and  that  Miss  Dombey  herself  has  left  hex 
father,  who,  in  my  opinion,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  great 
excitement,  "  is  a  Brute,  that  it  would  be  a  flattery  to 
call  a  —  a  marble  monument,  or  a  bird  of  prey  —  and 
that  she  is  not  to  be  found,  and  has  gone  no  one  knows 
where  ? " 


92  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  heard  this  ?  "  inquired  Walter. 

"  Lieutenant  "Walters,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  !)ad  arrived 
at  that  appellation  by  a  process  peculiar  to  himself;  prob* 
ably  by  jumbling  up  his  Christian  name  with  the  seafar* 
ing  profession,  aud  supposing  some  relationship  between 
him  and  the  captain,  which  would  extend,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  to  their  titles;  "Lieutenant  Walters,  I  can 
have  no  objection  to  make  a  straightforward  reply.  The 
fact  is,  that  feeling  extremely  interested  in  everything 
that  relates  to  Miss  Dombey  —  not  for  any  selfish  rea- 
son, Lieutenant  Walters,  for  I  am  well  aware  that  the 
most  agreeable  thing  I  could  do  for  all  parties  would  be 
to  put  an  end  to  my  existence,  which  can  only  be  re- 
garded as  an  inconvenience  —  I  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  bestowing  a  trifle  now  and  then  upon  a  footman  ;  a 
most  respectable  young  man,  of  the  name  of  Towlinson, 
who  has  lived  in  the  family  some  time ;  and  Towlinson 
informed  me,  yesterday  evening,  that  this  was  the  state 
of  things.  Since  which.  Captain  Gills  —  and  Lieuten- 
ant Walters  —  I  have  been  perfectly  frantic,  and  have 
been  lying  down  on  the.  sofa  all  night,  the  Rum  you 
behold." 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Walter,  **  I  am  happy  to  be  able 
to  relieve  your  mind.  Pray  calm  yourself.  Miss  Dom- 
bey is  safe  and  well." 

"  Sir !  "  cried  Mr.  Toots,  starting  from  his  chair  and 
shaking  hands  with  him  anew,  "  the  relief  is  so  exces- 
sive, and  unspeakable,  that  if  you  were  to  tell  me  now 
that  Miss  Dombey  was  married  even,  I  could  smile. 
Yes,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots  appealing  to  him, 
■'  upon  my  soul  and  body,  I  really  think,  whatever  I 
•night  do  to  myself  immediately  afterwards,  that  I  could 
•mile.  I  am  so  relieved." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  98 

*♦  It  vill  be  a  greater  relief  and  delight  still,  to  such 
a  generous  mind  as  yours,"  said  Walter,  not  at  all  slow 
in  returning  his  greeting,  "  to  find  that  you  can  render 
service  to  Miss  Dombey.  Captain  Cuttle,  will  you  have 
the  kindness  to  take  Mr.  Toots  up-stairs  ? " 

The  captain  beckoned  to  Mr.  Toots,  who  followed 
him  with  a  bewildered  countenance,  and,  ascending  to 
the  top  of  the  house,  was  introduced,  without  a  word 
of  preparation  from  his  conductor,  into  Florence's  new 
retreat. 

Poor  Mr.  Toots's  amazement  and  pleasure  at  sight  of 
her  were  such,  that  they  could  find  a  vent  in  nothing 
but  extravagance.  He  ran  up  to  her,  seized  her  hand, 
kissed  it,  dropped  it,  seized  it  again,  fell  upon  one  knee, 
shed  tears,  chuckled,  and  was  quite  regardless  of  his 
danger  of  being  pinned  by  Diogenes,  who,  inspired  by 
the  belief  that  there  was  something  hostile  to  his  mis- 
tress in  these  demonstrations,  worked  round  and  round 
him,  as  if  only  undecided  at  what  particular  point  to  go 
in  for  the  assault,  but  quite  resolved  to  do  him  a  fearful 
mischief 

"  Oh*  Di,  you  bad,  forgetful  dog  !  Dear  Mr.  Toots,  I 
am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you  ! " 

"  Thankee,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  am  pretty  well,  I'm 
much  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Dombey.  I  hope  all  the 
family  are  the  same." 

Mr.  Toots  said  this  without  the  least  notion  of  whal 
he  was  talking  about,  and  sat  down  on  a  chair,  staring 
at  Florence  with  the  liveliest  contention  of  delight  and 
despair  going  on  in  his  face  that  any  face  could  ex- 
hibit. 

"Captain  Gills  and  Lieutenant  Walters  have  men- 
Honed,  Miss  Dombey,"  gasped  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  can 


94  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

io  you  some  service.  If  I  could  by  any  means  wasb 
But  the  remembrance  of  that  day  at  Brighton,  when  I 
conducted  myself — much  more  like  a  Parricide  than  » 
person  of  independent  property,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with 
severe  self-accusation,  "  I  should  sink  into  the  silenl 
tomb  with  a  gleam  of  joy." 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,  "  do  not  wish  me 
lo  forget  anything  in  our  acquaintance.  I  never  can, 
believe  me.  You  have  been  far  too  kind  and  good  to 
me,  always." 

"  IVIiss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  your  consid- 
eration for  ray  feelings  is  a  part  of  your  angelic  charac- 
ter. Thank  you  a  thousand  times.  It's  of  no  conse- 
quence at  all." 

"What  we  thought  of  asking  you,"  said  Florence,  "  is, 
whether  you  remember  where  Susan,  whom  you  were  so 
kind  as  to  accompany  to  the  coach-office  when  she  left 
me,  is  to  be  found." 

"  Why  I  do  not  certainly,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr 
Toots,  after  a  little  consideration,  "  remember  the  exact 
name  of  the  place  that  was  on  the  coach  ;  and  I  do 
recollect  that  she  said  she  was  not  going  to  stop'  there, 
but  was  going  farther  on.  But  Miss  Dombey,  if  your 
object  is  to  find  her,  and  to  have  her  here,  myself  and 
the  Chicken  will  produce  her  with  every  despatch  that 
devotion  on  my  part,  and  great  intelligence  on  the  Ciiick 
en's  can  insure." 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  manifestly  delighted  and  revived 
by  the  prospect  of  being  useful,  and  the  disinterested 
sincerity  of  his  devotion  was  so  unquestionable,  that  it 
would  have  been  cruel  to  refuse  him.  Florence,  with 
nn  instinctive  delicacy,  forbore  to  urge  the  least  obstacle, 
though  she  did  not  forbear  to  overpower  him  with  thanks; 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON.  95 

Mill  Mr.  Toot  3  proudly  took  the  commission  upon  himnelf 
for  immediate  execution. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  touching  her  prof- 
fered hand,  with  a  pang  of  hopeless  love  visibly  shoot- 
ing through  him,  and  flashing  out  in  his  face,  "  Good- 
by !  Allow  me  to  take  the  liberty  of  saying,  that  your 
misfortunes  make  me  perfectly  wretched,  and  that  yoa 
may  trust  me,  next  to  Captain  Gills  himself.  I  am 
quite  aware.  Miss  Dombey,  of  my  own  deficiencies  — 
they're  not  of  the  least  consequence,  thank  you  —  but 
T  am  entirely  to  be  relied  upon,  I  do  assure  you,  Miss 
Dombey." 

With  that  Mr.  Toots  came  out  of  the  room  again, 
accompanied  by  the  captain,  who,  standing  at  a  little 
distance,  holding  his  hat  under  his  arm  and  arranging 
his  scattered  locks  with  his  hook,  had  been  a  not  unin- 
terested witness  of  what  passed.  And  when  the  door 
closed  behind  them,  the  light  of  Mr.  Toots's  life  was 
darkly  clouded   again. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  that  gentleman,  stopping  near 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  turning  round,  "  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  am  not  in  a  frame  of  mind  at  the  present 
moment,  in  wliich  I  could  see  Lieutenant  Walters  with 
that  entirely  friendly  feeling  towards  him  that  I  sliould 
wish  to  harbor  in  my  breast  We  cannot  always  com- 
mand our  feelings,  Captain  Gills,  and  I  should  take  it 
as  a  particular  favor  if  you'd  let  me  out  at  the  private 
iocr." 

♦'Brother,"  returned  the  captain,  "you  shall  shape 
your  own  course.  Wotever  course  you  take,  is  plain 
»nd  seamanlike,  I'm  wery  sure." 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "you're  ext-emely 
kind.     Your  good  opinion  is  a  consolation  to  me.     Thera 


96  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

is  one  thing,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  standing  in  the  passage, 
behind  the  half-opened  door,  "  that  I  hope  you'll  beai 
in  mind.  Captain  Gills,  and  that  I  should  wish  Lieuten- 
ant Walters  to  be  made  acquainted  with.  I  have  quite 
come  into  my  property  now,  you  know,  and — and  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  If  I  could  he  at  all 
useful  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  I  should  glide  into 
the  silent  tomb  with  ease  and  smoothness." 

Mr.  Toots  said  no  more,  but  slipped  out  quietly  and 
shut  the  door  upon  himself,  to  cut  the  captain  off  from 
any  reply. 

Florence  thought  of  this  good  creature,  long  after  he 
had  left  her,  with  mingled  emotions  of  pain  and  pleas- 
ure. He  was  so  honest  and  warm-hearted,  that  to  see 
him  again  and  be  assured  of  his  truth  to  her  in  her 
distress,  was  a  joy  and  comfort  beyond  all  price  ;  but 
for  that  very  reason,  it  was  so  affecting  lo  think  that 
she  caused  him  a  moment's  unhappiness,  or  ruffled  by 
a  breath,  the  harmless  current  of  his  life,  that  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  her  bosom  overflowed  with  pity. 
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  different  way,  thought  much  of 
Mr.  Toots  too  ;  and  so  did  Walter ;  and  when  the  even- 
ing came,  and  they  were  all  sitting  together  in  Florence's 
new  room,  Walter  praised  him  in  a  most  impassioned 
manner,  and  told  Florence  what  he  had  said  on  leaving 
the  house,  with  every  graceful  setting-off  in  the  way  of 
wmment  and  appreciation  that  his  own  honesty  and  syra» 
j)athy  could  surround  it  with. 

Mr  Toots  did  not  return  upon  the  next  day,  or  the 
next,  or  for  several  days ;  and  in  the  mean  while  Flor- 
ence, without  any  new  alarm,  lived  like  a  quiet  bird  m 
a  cage,  at  the  top  of  the  old  Instrument-maker's  house 
But  Florence  drooped  and  hung  her  head  more  and  mora 


DOMBEr  AND  SON.  f7 

plainly,  as  the  days  went  on ;  and  the  expression  that  had 
been  seen  in  the  face  of  the  dead  child,  was  often  turned 
to  the  sky  from  her  high  window,  as  if  it  sought  his 
angel  out,  on  the  bright  shore  of  which  he  had  spoken : 
lying  on  his  little  bed. 

Florence  had  been  weak  and  delicate  of  late,  and  the 
agitation  she  had  undergone  was  not  without  its  influ- 
ences on  her  health.  But  it  was  no  bodily  illness  that 
affected  iier  now.  She  was  distressed  in  mind  ;  and 
the  cause  of  her  distress  was  Walter. 

Interested  in  her,  anxious  for  her,  proud  and  glad  to 
serve  her,  and  showing  all  this  with  the  enthusiasm  and 
ardor  of  his  character,  Florence  saw  that  he  avoided  her. 
All  the  long  day  through,  he  seldom  approached  her 
room.  If  she  asked  for  him,  he  came,  again  for  the 
moment  as  earnest  and  as  bright  as  slie  remembered  him 
when  she  was  a  lost  child  in  the  staring  streets ;  but  he 
Boon  became  constrained  —  her  quick  affection  was  too 
watchful  not  to  know  it  —  and  uneasy,  and  soon  left  her. 
Unsought,  he  never  came,  all  day,  between  the  morning 
and  the  night.  When  the  evening  closed  in,  he  was 
always  there,  and  that  was  her  happiest  time,  for  then 
she  half  believed  that  the  old  Walter  of  her  childhood 
was  not  changed.  But,  even  then,  some  trivial  word, 
look,  or  circumstance  would  show  her  that  there  was  an 
indefinable  division  between  them  which  could  not  be 
passed. 

And  she  could  not  but  see  that  these  revealings  of 'a 
great  alteration  in  Walter  manifested  themselves  in  de- 
«pite  of  his  utmost  efforts  to  hide  them.  In  his  considera*- 
Uon  for  her,  she  thought,  and  in  the  earnestness  of  his 
desire  to  spare  her  any  wound  from  his  kind  hand,  he 
Kesorted  to  innumerable  little  artifices  and  disguises.     So 

VOL.    IV.  7 


98  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

much  tbe  more  did  Florence  feel  the  greatness  of  the 
alteration  in  him ;  so  much  the  oftener  did  she  weep  at 
this  estrangement  of  her  brother. 

The  good  captain  —  her  untiring,  tender,  ever  zealoua 
friend  —  saw  it  too,  Florence  thought,  and  it  pained  him. 
He  was  less  cheerful  and  hopeful  than  he  had  been  at 
first,  and  would  steal  looks  at  her  and  Walter,  by  turns, 
when  they  were  all  three  together  of  an  evening,  with 
quite  a  sad  face. 

Florence  resolved,  at  last,  to  speak  to  Walter.  She 
believed  she  knew  now  what  the  cause  of  his  estrange- 
ment was,  and  she  thought  it  would  be  a  relief  to  her  full 
heart,  and  would  set  him  more  at  ease,  if  she  told  him 
she  had  found  it  out,  and  quite  submitted  to  it,  and  did 
not  reproach  him. 

It  was  on  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon,  that  Florence 
took  this  resolution.  The  faithful  captain,  in  an  amazing 
shirt-collar,  was  sitting  by  her,  reading  with  his  spectacles 
on,  and  she  asked  him  where  Walter  was. 

"  I  think  he's  down  below,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the 
captain.  ' 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  him,"  said  Florence,  rising 
burriedly,  as  if  to  go  down-stairs. 

"  I'll  rouse  him  up  here,  Beauty,"  said  the  captain, 
*  ill  a  trice." 

Thereupon  the  captain,  with  much  alacrity,  shouldered 
his  book  —  for  he  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to  read  none 
but  very  large  books  on  a  Sunday,  as  having  a  more 
Btaid  appearance :  and  had  bargained,  years  ago,  for  a 
prodigious  volume  at  a  book-stall,  five  lines  of  which 
utterly  confounded  him  at  any  time,  insomuch  that  he 
had  not  yet  ascertained  of  what  subject  it  treated  —  and 
withdrew.     Walter  soon  appeared. 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  99 

"  Captain  Cuttle  tells  me,  Miss  Dombey,"  —  he  eagerly 
began  on  coming  in  —  but  stopped  when  he  saw  her 
face. 

"  You  are  not  so  well  to-day.  You  look  distressed. 
You  have  been  weeping." 

He  spoke  so  kindly,  and  with  such  a  fervent  tremor  in 
his  voice,  that  the  tears  gushed  into  her  eyes  at  the  sound 
of  his  words. 

**  Walter,"  said  Florence,  gently,  "  I  am  not  quite  well, 
and  I've  been  weeping.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  looking  at  her  beautiful 
and  innocent  face  ;  and  his  own  turned  pale,  and  his  lips 
trembled. 

**  You  said,  upon  the  night  when  I  knew  that  you  were 
saved  —  and  oh  !  dear  Walter,  what  I  felt  that  night,  and 
what  I  hoped  !  "  — 

He  i)ut  his  trembling  hand  upon  the  table  between 
them,  and  sat  looking  at*  her. 

—  "  that  I  was  changed.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  you 
Bay  so,  but  I  understand,  now,  that  I  am.  Don't  be  angry 
with  me,  Wallei-.  I  was  too  much  overjoyed  to  think  of 
it,  then." 

She  seemed  a  child  to  him  again.  It  was  tlie  ingenu- 
ous, cotifiding,  loving  child,  he  saw  and  heard.  Not  the 
dear  woman,  at  whose  feet  he  would  have  laid  the  riches 
of  the  earth. 

"  You  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  Walter,  be- 
fore you  went  away  ?  " 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and  took  out  a  little 
purse. 

"I  have  always  worn  it  round  my  neck!  If  I  had 
gone  down  in  the  deep,  it  would  have  been  with  me 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea." 


100  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

''And  you   will  wear  it  still,  Walter,   for    my  old 

sake?" 

"  Until  I  die ! " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  as  fearlessly  and  simply,  m 
if  not  a  day  had  intervened  since  she  gave  him  the  little 
token  of  remembrance. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  shall  be  always  glad  to  think 
BO,  Walter.  Do  you  recollect  that  a  thought  of  this 
change  seemed  to  come  into  our  minds  at  the  same  time 
that  evening,  when  we  were  talking  together  ?  ** 

"  No !  "  he  answered,  in  a  wondering  tone. 

"  Yes,  Walter.  I  had  been  the  means  of  injuring  your 
hopes  and  prospects  even  then.  I  feared  to  think  so, 
then,  but  I  know  it  now.  If  you  were  able,  then,  in  your 
generosity,  to  hide  from  me  that  you  knew  it  too,  you 
cannot  do  so  now,  although  you  try  as  generously  as 
before.  You  do.  .  I  thank  you  for  it,  Walter,  deeply, 
truly ;  but  you  cannot  succeed;  You  have  suffered  too 
much  in  your  own  hardships,  and  in  those  of  your 
dearest  relation,  quite  to  overlook  the  innocent  cause  of 
all  the  peril  and  affliction  that  has  befallen  you.  You 
cannot  quite  forget  me  in  that  character,  and  we  can  be 
brother  and  sister  no  longer.  But,  dear  Walter,  do  not 
think  that  I  complain  of  you  in  this.  I  might  have 
known  it  —  ought  to  have  known  it  —  but  forgot  it  in 
my  joy.  All  I  hope  is  that  you  may  think  of  me  less 
irksomely  when  this  feeling  is  no  more  a  secret  cne ;  and 
all  I  ask  is,  Walter,  in  the  name  of  the  poor  child  who 
was  your  sister  once,  that  you  will  not  struggle  with 
yourself,  and  pain  yourself,  for  my  sake,  now  that  I 
inow  all." 

Walter  had  looked  upon  her  while  she  sfud  this,  with 
A  face  so  full  of  wonder  and  amazement,  that  it  had 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  101 

room  for  nothing  else.  Now  he  caught  up  the  hand  thai 
touched  his,  so  entreatingly,  and  held  it  between  his  own. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  said,  "  is  it  possible  that  whil« 
I  have  been  sufFering  so  much,  in  striving  with  my  sense 
of  what  is  due  to  you,  and  must  be  rendered  to  you,  1 
have  made  you  suffer  what  your  words  disclose  to  me. 
Never,  never,  before  Heaven,  have  I  thought  of  you  h\  t 
as  the  single  bright,  pure,  blessed  recollection  of  my  boy- 
hood and  my  youth.  Never  have  I  from  the  first,  and 
never  shall  I  to  the  last,  regard  your  part  in  my  life,  but 
as  something  sacred,  never  to  be  lightly  thought  of,  never 
to  be  esteemed  enough,  never,  until  death,  to  be  forgotten. 
Again  to  see  you  look,  and  hear  you  speak,  as  you  did 
on  that  night  when  we  parted,  is  happiness  to  me  that 
there  are  no  words  to  utter ;  and  to  be  loved  and  trusted 
as  your  brother,  is  the  next  great  gift  I  could  receive  and 
prize !  " 

"  Walter,"  said  Florence,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  but 
with  a  changing  face,  "  what  is  that  which  is  due  to  me, 
and  must  be  rendered  to  me,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  this?" 

"  Respect,"  said  Walter,  in  a  low  tone.    "  Reverence." 

The  color  dawned  in  her  face,  and  she  timidly  and 
thoughtfully  withdrew  her  hand  ;  still  looking  at  him 
with  unabated  earnestness. 

"  I  iiave  not  a  brother's  right,"  said  Walter  "  I  have 
not  a  brother's  claim.     I  left  a  child.     I  find  a  woman." 

The  color  overspread  her  face.  She  made  a  gesture 
as  if  of  entreaty  that  he  would  say  no  more,  and  her 
fece  dropped  upon  her  hands. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time  ,  she  weeping. 

"  I  owe  it  to  a  heart  so  trusting,  pure,  and  good,"  said 
•  Walter,  "  even  to  tear  myself  from  it,  though  I  rend  mj 
»wn.     How  darf  I  say  it  is  ray  sister's !" 


102  POMBEY   AND  S(  Jf. 

She  was  weeping  still. 

''  If  you  had  been  happy ;  surrounded  as  you  should 
be  by  loving  and  admiring  friends,  and  by  all  that  raakea 
the  station  you  were  born  to  enviable,"  said  "Walter ; 
•*  and  if  you  iiad  called  me  brother,  then,  in  your  affeC" 
tionat(;  remembi-ance  of  the  past,  I  could  have  answered 
to  the  name  fi-oni  my  distant  place,  with  no  inward  as- 
surance that  I  wronged  your  spotless  truth  by  doing  sa 
But  here  —  and  now  ! "  — 

''  Oh  tliauk  .you,  thank  you,  Walter !  Forgive  ray 
having  wronged  you  ?o  much.  I  had  no  one  to  advise 
me.     I  am  quite  alone." 

**  Florence  ! "  said  Walter,  passionately,  "  I  am  hurried 
on  to  say,  what  I  thought,  but  a  few  moments  ago,  noth- 
ing could  liave  forced  from  my  lips.  If  I  had  been  pros- 
perous ;  if  I  had  any  means  or  hope  of  being  one  day 
able  to  restore  you  to  a  station  near  your  own  ;  I  would 
have  told  you  that  there  was  one  name  you  might 
bestow  upon  me  —  a  right  above  all  others,  to  protect 
and  cherish  you  —  that  I  was  worthy  of  in  nothing  but 
the  love  and  honor  that  I  bore  you,  and  in  my  whole 
heart  being  yours.  I  would  have  told  you  that  it  was 
the  only  claim  that  you  could  give  me  to  defend  and 
guard  you,  which  I  dare  accept  and  dare  assert ;  but 
that  if  I  had  that  right,  I  would  regard  it  as  4  trust  so 
precious  and  so  priceless,  that  the  undivided  truth  and 
fervor  of  ray  life  would  poorly  acknowledge  its  worth." 

The  head  was  still  bent  down,  the  tears  still  falling, 
Bud  the  bosom  swelling  with  its  sobs. 

"Dear  Florence!  dearest  Florence!  whom  I  called 
K)  in  ray  thoughts  before  I  could  (-onsider  how  pre- 
sumptuous and  wild  it  was.  One  last  time  let  me  call 
you  by  your  own  dear  name,  and  touch  this  gentle  haod 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  102 

in   token  of  your  sisterly  forgetfulness  of  what   I  have 
f«id." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  spoke  to  him  witli  suoh  a, 
golemn  sweetness  in  her  eyes  ;  with  such  a  calm,  bright, 
placid  smile  shining  on  him  through  her  tears;  with  sucb 
H  low,  soft  tremble  in  her  frame  and  voice  ;  that  llie  in- 
nermost chords  of  his  heart  were  touched,  and  his  siglit 
was  dim  as  he  listened. 

"  No,  Walter,  I  cannot  forget  it.  I  would  not  forget 
it,  for  the  world.     Are  you  —  are  you  very  poor  ?  " 

"  I  am  but  a  wanderer,"  said  Walter,  "  making  voy- 
ages to  live  across  the  sea.     That  is  my  calling  now." 

"  Are  you  soon  going  away  again,  Walter  ?  " 

"  Very  soon." 

She  sat  looking  at  him  for  a  moment ;  then  timidly 
put  her  trembling  hand  in  his. 

"  If  you  will  take  me  for  your  wife,  Walter,  I  will 
love  you  dearly.  If  you  will  let  me  go  with  you,  Wal- 
ter, I  will  go  to  the  world's  end  without  fear.  I  can 
give  up  nothing  for  you  —  I  have  nothing  to  resign,  and 
no  one  to  forsake;  but  all* my  love  and  life  shall  be 
devoted  to  you,  and  with  my  last  breath  I  will  breathe 
your  name  to  God  if  I  have  sense  and  memory  left." 

He  caught  her  to  his  heart,  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
his  own,  and  now,  no  more  repulsed,  no  more  forlorn, 
Bhe  wept  indeed,  upon  the  breast  of  her  dear  lover. 

Blessed  Sunday  bells,  ringing  so  tranquilly  in  their 
entranced  and  happy  ears !  Blessed  Sunday  peace  and 
quiet,  harmonizing  with  the  calmness  in  their  souls,  and 
making  holy  air  around  them  !  Blessed  twilight  stealing 
w,  and  shading  her  so  soothingly  and  gravely,  as  she 
fells  asleep,  like  a  hushed  child,  upon  the  bosom  she  haa 
clung  to  ! 


104  DOMBEY  AND  SON". 

Oh  load  of  love  and  trustfulness  that  lies  so  ligLtlj 
there  !  Ay,  look  down  on  the  closed  eyes,  Walter,  with  h 
proudly  tender  gaze ;  for  in  all  the  wide  wide  world  they 
seek  hut  thee  now  —  only  thee  ! 

The  captain  remained  in  the  little  parlor  until  it  waa 
quite  dark.  He  took  the  chair  on  which  Walter  had 
been  sitting,  and  looked  up  at  the  skylight,  until  the  day» 
by  little  and  little,  faded  away,  and  the  stars  peeped 
down.  He  lighted  a  candle,  lighted  a  pipe,  smoked  it 
out,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  was  going  on  up-stairs, 
and  why  they  didn't  call  him  to  tea. 

Florence  came  to  his  side  while  he  was  in  the  height 
of  his  wonderment. 

"Ay  !  lady  lass!"  cried  the  captain.  "Why,  you  and 
Wal'r  have  had  a  long  spell  o'  talk,  my  beauty." 

Florence  put  her  little  hand  round  one  of  the  great 
buttons  of  his  coat,  and  said,  looking  down  into  his  face : 

"  Dear  captain,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  if  you 
please." 

The  captain  raised  his  Tiead  pretty  smartly,  to  hear 
what  it  was..  Catching  by  this  means  a  more  distinct 
view  of  Florence,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  himself 
With  it  as  far  as  they  could  go. 

"  What !  Heart's  Delight !  "  cried  the  captain,  sud- 
denly elated.     "Is  it  that?" 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Florence,  eagerly. 

**  Wal'r !  Husband  !  That  ?  "  roared  the  captain, 
tossing  up  his  glazed  hat  into  the  skylight. 

"  Yes ! "  cried  Florence,  laughing  and  crying  to- 
gether. 

The  captain  immediately  hugged  her;  and  then,  pick- 
*ng  up  the  glazed  hat  and  putting  it  on,  drew  her  arm 


DOMBEY  A.XD  SON.  10& 

through  his,  and  conducted  her  up-stairs  again ;  where 
he  IV'k  that  the  great  joke  of  his  life  was  now  to  be 
made. 

''  What,  Wal'r  my  lad!"  said  the  captain,  lookir\g  iu 
»t  the  door,  with  his  face  like  an  amiable  warming-pan. 
'  So  there  a'n't  NO  other  character,  a'n't  there  ?  " 

He  had  like  to  have  suffocated  himself  with  this  pleas- 
antry, which  he  repeated  at  least  forty  times  during  tea; 
polishing  his  radiant  face  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and 
dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  pocket-handkerchief, 
in  the  intervals.  But  he  was  not  without  a  graver  source 
of  enjoyment  to  fall  back  upon,  when  so  disposed,  for  he 
was  repeatedly  heard  to  say  in  an  undertone,  as  he 
looked   with    ineffable  delight  at  Walter  and  Florence: 

"  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a  better 
course  in  your  life,  than  when  you  made  that  there  little 
proper'.y  over,  jintly  I  " 


106  DOMBEY  AND  SON 


CHAPTER  LI. 

MR.   DOMBEY    AND   THE   WORLD. 

WuAT  is  the  pi'oud  man  doing,  while  the  days  go  by  ? 
Does  lie  ever  think  of  his  daughter,  or  wonder  where 
she  is  gone  ?  Does  he  suppose  she  has  come  home,  and 
is  leading  her  old  Hfe  in  the  weary  house  ?  No  one  can 
answer  lor  him.  He  has  never  uttered  her  name,  since. 
His  household  dread  him  too  much  to  aj)proach  a  suhject 
on  which  he  is  resolutely  dumb ;  and  the  only  person 
who  dare  question  him,  he  silences  immediately. 

"  My  dear  Paul !  "  murmurs  his  sister,  sidling  into  the 
room,  on  the  day  of  Florence's  departure,  *'your  wife  I 
that  upstart  woman !  Is  it  possible  that  what  I  hear 
confusedly,  is  true,  and  that  this  is  her  return  for  your 
unparalleled  devotion  to  her ;  extending,  I  am  sure,  even 
to  the  sacrifice  of  your  own  relations,  to  her  caprices  and 
haughtiness  ?     My  poor  brother  !  " 

With  this  speech,  feelingly  reminiscent  of  her  not  hav- 
ing been  asked  to  dinner  on  the  day  of  the  first  party, 
Mrs.  Chick  makes  great  use  of  her  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  falls  on  Mr.  Dombey's  neck.  But  Mr.  Dombcy 
frigidly  lil'ts  her  off,  and  hands  her  to  a  chair. 

"1  thank  you,  Louisa,"  he  says,  "for  this  mark  of  your 
HlTection;  but  desire  that  Our  conversation  may  refer  to 
any  other  subject.  When  I  bewail  my  fate,  Louisa,  or 
express  myself  as  being  in  want  of  consolation,  you  can 
offer  it,  il  you  will  have  the  goodness." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON  107 

«  My  dear  Paul,"  rejoins  his  wistRr,  with  her  handker 
chief  to  her  face,  and  shaking  her  head,  "  I  know  your 
great  spirit,  and  will  say  no  more  upon  a  theme  so  painful 
Bnd  revolting ; "  oii  the  heads  of  which  two  adjectives,  Mrs. 
Chick  visits  scathing  indignation;  "but  pray  let  me  ask 
you  —  though  I  dread  to  hear  something  that  will  shock 
and  distress  me  —  that  unfortunate  child  Florence"  — 

"  Louisa  !  "  says  her  brother,  sternly,  "  silence.  Not 
another  word  of  this  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  can  only  shake  her  head,  and  use  her 
handkerchief,  and  moan  over  degenerate  Dombeys,  who 
are  no  Dombeys.  But  whether  P^lorence  has  been  in- 
culpated in  the  flight  of  Edith,  or  has  followed  her,  or 
has  done  too  much,  or  too  little,  or  anything,  or  nothing, 
she  has  not  the  least  idea. 

lie  goes  on,  without  deviation,  keeping  his  thoughts 
and  feelings  close  within  his  own  breast,  and  imparting 
them  to  no  one.  He  makes  no  search  for  his  daughter. 
He  may  think  that  she  is  with  his  sister,  or  that  she  is 
under  his  own  roof.  He  may  think  of  her  constantly, 
or  he  may  never  think  about  her.  It  is  all  one  for  any 
sign  he  makes. 

But  this  is  sure ;  he  does  not  think  that  he  has  lost 
her.  He  has  no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  He  has  lived 
too  long  shut  up  in  his  towering  supremacy,  seeing  her, 
a  patient,  gentle  creature,  in  the  path  below  it,  to  have 
any  fear  of  that.  Shaken  as  he  is  by  his  disgi-ace,  he  ie 
not  yet  humbled  to  the  level  earth.  The  root  is  broad 
and  deep,  and  in  the  course  of  years  its  fibres  have 
spread  out  and  gathered  nourishment  from  everything 
around  it.     The  tree  is  struck,  but  not  down. 

Though  he  hide  the  world  within  him  from  the  world 
without  —  which  he  believes  has  but  one  purpose  for  thn 


108  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

time,  and  that  to  watch  him  eagerly  wherever  he  goes  — 
he  cannot  hide  those  rebel  traces  of  it,  which  esca[)e  in 
hollow  eyes  and  cheeks,  a  haggard  forehead,  and  a 
moody,  brooding  air.  Impenetrable  as  before,  he  is  still 
an  altered  man ;  and,  proud  as  ever,  he  is  humbled,  ot 
those  marks  would  not  be  there. 

The  woi'ld.  What  the  world  thinks  of  him,  how  it 
looks  at  him,  what  it  sees  in  him,  and  what  it  says  — 
this  is  the  haunting  demon  of  his  mind.  It  is  every- 
where wliere  he  is  ;  and,  worse  than  that,  it  is  every- 
where where  he  is  not.  It  comes  out  with  him  among 
his  servants,  and  yet  he  leaves  it  whispering  behind ;  he 
sees  it  pointing  after  him  in  the  street ;  it  is  waiting  for 
him  in  his  counting-house :  it  leers  over  the  shoulders  of 
rich  men  among  the  merchants ;  it  goes  beckoning  and 
babbling  among  the  crowd  ;  it  always  anticipates  him,  in 
every  place ;  and  is  always  busiest,  he  knows,  when  he 
has  gone  away.  When  he  is  shut  up  in  his  room  at 
night,  it  is  in  his  house,  outside  it,  audible  in  footsteps 
on  the  pavement,  visible  in  print  upon  the  table,  steam- 
ing to  and  fro  on  railroads  and  in  ships :  restless  and 
busy  everywhere,  with  nothing  else  but  him. 

It  is  not  a  phantom  of  his  imagination.  It  is  as  active 
in  other  people's  minds  as  in  his.  Witness  Cousin  Fee- 
nix,  who  comes  from  Baden-Baden,  purposely  to  talk  to 
him.  Witness  Major  Bagstock,  who  accompanies  Cousin 
Feenix  on  that  friendly  mission. 

Mr.  Dombey  receives  them  with  his  usual  dignity,  and 
stands  erect,  in  his  old  attitude,  before  the  fire.  He 
feels  that  the  world  is  looking  at  him  out  of  their  eyes. 
That  it  is  in  the  stare  of  the  pictures.  That  Mr.  Pitt, 
upon  the  book-case,  represents  it.  That  there  are  eyes 
in  its  own  map,  hanging  on  the  wall. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  109 

**An  iinnsnally  cold  spriug,"  says  Mr.  Dombey — to 
deceive  the  world. 

"  Damme,  sir,"  says  the  major,  in  the  warmth  oC 
friendship,  "  Josepli  Bagstock  is  a  bad  hand  at  a  counter- 
feit. If  you  want  to  hold  your  friends  off,  Dombey,  and 
to  give  them  the  cold  shoulder,  J.  B.  is  not  the  man  for 
your  purpose.  Joe  is  rough  and  tough,  sir ;  blunt,  sir, 
blunt,  is  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of 
York  did  me  the  honor  to  say,  deservedly  or  undeserv- 
edly —  never  mind  that  — '  If  there  is  a  man  in  the 
service  on  whom  I  can  depend  for  coming  to  the  jxjint, 
that  man  is  Joe  —  Joe  Bagstock.'  " 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  his  acquiescence. 

*'  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  "  I  am  a  man  of  the 
world.     Our  friend  Feenix  —  if  I  may  presume  to  "  — 

"  Honored,  I  am  sure,"  says  Cousin  Feenix. 

—  "  is,"  proceeds  the  major,  with  a  wag  of  his  head, 
"  also  a  man  of  the  world.  Dombey,  you  are  a  man  of 
the  world.  Now,  wiien  three  men  of  the  world  meet 
togethei*,  and  are  friends  —  as  I  believe  "  —  again  ap- 
pealing to  Cousin  Feenix. 

"  I  am  sure,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  most  friendly." 

—  '•  and  are  friends,"  resumes  the  major,  "  Old  Joe's 
opinion  is  (J.  may  be  wrong),  that  the  opinion  of  t4io 
world  on  any  particular  subject,  is  very  easily  got  at." 

"Undoubtedly,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "In  point  of 
fact,  it's  quite  a  self-evident  sort  of  thing.  I  am  ex- 
tremely anxious,  major,  that  my  friend  Dombey  should 
bear  me  express  my  very  great  astonishment  and  regret, 
that  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  who  was  pos- 
sessed oi'  every  qualification  to  make  a  man  happy, 
should  have  so  far  forgotten  what  was  due  to  —  in  point 
of  fact,  to  the  world  —  as  to  commit  herself  in  such  a 


110  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

very  extraordinary  manner.  I  have  been  in  a  devilidh 
Mate  of  depression  ever  since  ;  and  said  indeed  to  Long 
Saxby  last  night —  man  of  six  foot  ten,  with  whom  my 
friend  Dombey  is  probably  acquainted  —  that  it  had  up- 
set me  in  a  confounded  way,  and  made  me  bilious.  It 
induces  a  man  to  reflect,  this  kind  of  fatal  aita^trophn," 
says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  that  events  do  occur  in  quite  a 
Pro\  idential  manner ;  for  if  my  aunt  had  been  living  at 
the  time,  I  think  the  effect  upon  a  devilish  lively  woman 
like  herself,  would  have  been  prostration,  and  that  she 
would  have  fallen,  in  point  of  fact,  a  victim." 

"  Now,  Dombey  !  "  —  says   the    major,  resuming   hifl 
dist'oiirse  with  great  energy. 

"  I  bpg  your  pardon,"  interposes  Cousin  Feenix.  "  Al 
low  me  another  word.  My  friend  Dombey  will  permit 
me  to  say,  that  if  any  circumstance  could  have  added  to 
the  most  infernal  state  of  pain  in  which  I  find  myself  on 
this  occasion,  it  would  be  the  natural  amazement  of  the 
world  at  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  (as  I  must 
still  beg  leave  to  call  her)  being  8up]X>sed  to  have  so 
»;omraitted  herself  with  a  person  —  man  with  white  teeth, 
in  point  of  fact  —  of  very  inferior  station  to  her  hus- 
band. But  while  I  must,  rather  peremptorily,  request 
my  friend  Dombey  not  to  criminate  my  lovely  and  ac- 
complished relative  until  her  criminality  is  perfectly 
established,  I  beg  to  assure  my  friend  Dombey  that  the 
family  I  represent,  and  which  is  now  almost  extinct 
(devilish  sad  reflection  for  a  man),  will  interpose  no  ob- 
alacle  in  his  way,  and  will  be  happy  to  assent  to  any 
honorable  course  of  proceeding,  with  a  view  to  the 
future,  that  he  may  point  out.  I  trust  my  friend  Dom- 
bey will  give  me  credit  for  the  intentions  by  which  I  am 
tnimated  in  this  very  melancholy  affair,  and  —  a  —  m 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  Ill 

poiol  of  fact,  I  am  not  av/:ire  iFiat  1  need  trouble  my 
friend  Dombey  with  any  further  observations." 

Mr.  Doncibey  bows,  without  raising  his  eyes,  and  is 
silenr. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  "  our  friend  FecnU 
having,  with  an  amount  of  eloquence  that  old  Joo  B,  has 
never  heard  surpassed — no,  by  the  Lord,  sir!  never!" 
—  says  the  major,  very  blue,  indeed,  and  grasping  his 
cane  in  the  middle  —  "  stated  tlie  case  as  regards  the 
hidy,  I  shall  presume  upon  our  friendship,  Dombey,  to 
offer  a  word  on  another  aspect  of  it.  Sir,"  says  the 
major,  with  the  horse's  cougli,  "  the  world  in  these  things 
has  opinions,  which  must  be  satisfied." 

"  1  know  it,"  rejoins  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Of  course  you  know  it,  Dombey,"  says  the  major. 
"  Damme,  sir,  I  know  you  know  it.  A  man  of  your 
calibre  is  not  likely  to  be  ignorant  of  it." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replies  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Dombey  ! "  says  the  major,  "  you  will  guess  the  resL 
I  speak  out  —  prematurely,  perhaps  —  because  the  Bag- 
stock  breed  have  always  spoken  out.  Little,  sir,  have 
they  ever  got  by  doing  it ;  but  it's  in  the  Bagstock 
blood.  A  shot  is  to  be  taken  at  this  man.  You  have  J. 
B.  at  your  elbow.  He  claims  the  name  of  friend.  God 
bless  you !  " 

"Major,"  returns  Mr.  Dombey.  "I  am  obliged.  1 
phall  put  myself  in  your  hands  when  the  lime  com«e. 
The  time  not  being  come,  I  have  forborne  to  speak  to 
you." 

"  Where  is  the  fellow,  Dombey?"  inquires  the  major 
ifter  gasping  and  looking  at  him,  for  a  minute. 

"  1  don't  know." 

"  Any  intelligence  of  him  ?  "  asks  the  major 


112  DOMBEY  AND   SOX. 

«  Yes." 

"  Dombey,  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,"  says  the  major 
*  I  congratulate  you." 

'•  You  will  excuse  —  even  you,  major,"  replies  Mr. 
Doinhey,  "  my  entering  into  any  further  detail  at  present. 
The  intelligence  is  of  a  singular  kind,  and  singularly  ob- 
tained. It  may  turn  out  to  be  valueless;  it  may  turn 
out  to  be  true ;  I  cannot  say  at  present.  My  explana- 
tion must  stop  here." 

Although  this  is  but  a  dry  reply  to  the  major's  purple 
enthusiasm,  the  major  receives  it  graciously,  and  is  de- 
lighted to  think  that  the  world  has  such  a  fair  prospect 
of  soon  receiving  its  due.  Cousin  Feenix  is  then  pre- 
sented with  his  meed  of  acknowledgment  by  the  hus- 
band of  his  lo\  ely  and  accomplished  relative,  and  Cousin 
Feenix  and  Major  Bagstock  retire,  leaving  that  hu-iband 
to  the  world  again,  and  to  ponder  at  leisure  on  their 
representation  of  its  state  of  mind  concerning  his  affairs, 
and  on  its  just  and  reasonable  expectations. 

But  who  sits  in  the  house-keeper's  room,  shedding 
tears,  and  talking  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  a  low  tone,  with 
uplifted  hands  ?  It  is  a  lady  with  her  face  concealed  in 
a  very  close  black  bonnet,  which  appears  not  to  belong 
to  her.  It  is  Miss  Tox,  who  has  borrowed  this  disguise 
from  her  servant,  and  comes  from  Princess's-place,  thus 
eecretly,  to  revive  her  old  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  in  order  lO  get  certain  information  of  the  state  of 
Mr.  Dombey. 

" ITow^  doea  he  bear  it,  my  dear  creature:  "  asks  Miss 
I'ox. 

"  Well,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  snappish  way, 
■*  he's  pretty  much  as  usual." 

"  Externally,"  suggests  Miss  Tox.  "  But  what  he  feels 
irithin  ! " 


POBIBEY  AND  SOK.  IIS 

Mr?.  PipcliiTi's  Iiard  gray  eye  looks  doubtful  aa  she 
answers,  in  three  distinct  jerks,  "  Ah  !  Perhaps.  I  sup- 
pose so." 

"  To  ttll  you  my  mind,  Lucrefia,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin , 
she  still  calls  Miss  Tox  Lucretia,  on  account  of  having 
made  her  first  experiments  in  the  child-quelling-line  of 
business  on  that  lady,  when  an  unfortunate  and  weazei 
little  girl  of  tender  years ;  "  to  tell  you  my  mind,  Lu- 
cretia, I  think  it's  a  good  riddance.  I  don't  want  any 
of  your  brazen  faces  here,  myself!" 

"  Brazen  indeed  !  "Well  may  you  say  brazen,  Mrs. 
Pipchin !"  returns  Miss  Tox.  "To  leave  him!  Such 
a  noble  figure  of  a  man  ! "  And  here  Miss  Tox  is 
overcome. 

"I  don't  know  aI)out  noble,  I'm  sure,"  observes  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  irascibly  rubbing  her  nose.  "  But  I  know  this 
—  that  when  people  meet  with  trials,  they  must  bear 
'em.  Hoity,  toity !  I  have  had  enough  to  bear  myself, 
in  my  time  !  What  a  fuss  there  is  !  She's  gone,  and  well 
got  rid  of.     Nobody  wants  her  back,  I  should  think!  " 

This  hint  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,  causes  Miss  Tox 
to  rise  to  go  away;  when  Mrs.  Pipchin  rings  the  bell 
for  Towlinson  to  show  her  out.  Mr.  Towlinson,  not 
having  seen  Miss  Tox  for  ages,  grins,  and  hopes  she's 
well ;  observing  that  he  didn't  know  her  at  first,  in  that 
bonnet. 

"  Pretty  well,  Towlinson,  I  thank  you,"  says  Miss  Tox. 
«*1  beg  you'll  have  the  goodness,  when  you  happen  to 
Bee  me  here,  not  to  mention  it.  My  visits  are  merely  to 
Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  Very  good,  miss,"  says  Towlinson. 

"  Shocking  circumstances  occur,  Towlinson,"  says  Mist 
Tox. 


114  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

**  Very  much  so  indeed,  miss,"  rejoins  Towlinson 

"  I  hope,  Towlinson,"  says  Miss  Tox,  who,  in  her  in 
Btruction  of  the  Toodle  family  has  acquired  an  admoni 
torial  tone,  and  a  habit  of  improving  passing  0\.'casions, 
"  that  what  has  happened  here,  will  be  a  warning  to  you, 
Towlinson." 

"  Thank  you,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  says  Towlin.<on. 

He  appears  to  be  falling  into  a  consideration  of  the 
manner  in  which  this  warning  ought  to  operate  in  hia 
particular  case,  when  the  vinegary  Mrs.  Pipchin,  sud- 
denly stirring  him  up  with  a  "  What  are  you  doing ! 
Why  don't  you  show  the  lady  to  the  door !  "  he  ushers 
Miss  Tox  forth.  As  she  passes  Mr.  Dombey's  i  oom,  she 
shrinks  into  the  inmost  depths  of  the  black  bonnet,  and 
walks  on  tiptoe  ;  and  there  is  not  another  atom  in  the 
world  which  haunts  him  so,  that  feels  such  sorrow  and 
solicitude  about  him,  as  Miss  Tox  takes  out  under  the 
black  bonnet  into  the  street,  and  tries  to  carry  home 
shadowed  from  the  newly-lighted  lamps. 

But  Miss  Tox  is  not  a  part  of  Mr.  Dombey's  world. 
She  comes  back  every  evening  at  dusk  ;  adding  clogs 
and  an  umbrella  to  the  bonnet  on  wet  nights ;  and  bears 
the  grins  of  Towlinson,  and  the  huffs  and  rebuffs  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  and  all  to  a'sk  how  he  does,  and  how  he  beara 
his  misfortune  :  but  she  has  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's world.  Exacting  and  harassing  as  ever,  it  goes  on 
without  her ;  and  she,  a  by  no  means  bright  or  particulai 
star,  moves  in  her  little  orbit  in  the  corner  of  anothei 
system,  and  knows  it  quite  well,  and  comes,  and  cries, 
Bnd  goes  away,  and  is  satisfied.  Verily  Miss  Tox  is 
easier  of  satisfaction  than  the  world  that  troubles  Mr 
Dombey  so  much  ! 

Al  the  counting-house,  the   clerks  discuss  the  great 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  116 

Jwaster  in  nil  its  lights  and  shades,  but  chiefly  wondei 
who  will  get  Mr.  Carker's  place.  They  are  generally 
of  opinion  that  it  will  be  shorn  of  some  of  its  emolu- 
ments, and  made  uncomfortable  by  newly  devised  checks 
and  restrictions ;  and  those  who  are  beyond  all  hope 
of  it,  are  quite  sure  they  would  rather  not  have  it,  and 
don't  at  all  envy  the  person  for  whom  it  may  prove  to 
be  reserved.  Nothing  like  the  prevailing  sensation  has 
existed  in  the  counting-house  since  Mr.  Dombey's  little 
sou  died  ;  but  all  such  excitements  there  take  a  social, 
not  to  say  jovial  turn,  and  lead  to  the  cultivation  of 
good  fellowship.  A  reconciliation  is  established  on  this 
propitious  occasion  between  the  acknowledged  wit  of 
the  counting-house  and  an  aspiring  rival,  with  whom 
he  lias  been  at  deadly  feud  for  months  ;  and  a  little 
dinner  being  proposed,  in  commemoration  of  their  hap- 
pily restored  amity,  takes  place  at  a  neighboring  tav- 
ern;  the  wit  in  the  cliair;  the  rival  acting  as  Vice- 
President.  The  omtions  following  the  removal  of  the 
cloth  are  opened  by  the  chair,  who  says,  gentlemen,  he 
can't  disguise  from  himself  that  this  is  not  a  time  for 
private  dissensions.  Recent  occurrences  to  which  he 
need  not  more  particularly  allude,  but  which  have  not 
been  altogether  without  notice  in  some  Sunday  papers, 
and  in  a  daily  paper  which  he  need  not  name  (here 
every  other  member  of  the  company  names  it  in  an 
audible  murmur),  have  caused  him  to  reflect ;  and  he 
feels  that  for  him  and  Robinson  to  have  any  personal 
differences  at  such  a  moment,  would  be  forever  to  deny 
that  good  feeling  in  the  general  cause,  for  wliic-h  he  has 
reason  to  think  and  hope  that  the  gentlemen  in  Dombey's 
House  have  always  been  distfnguished.  Robinson  replies 
jO  this  like  a  man  and  a  brother ;  and  one   gentleman 


116  POMBEY  AND  SON. 

who  has  been  in  the  office  three  years,  under  continua. 
notice  to  quit  on  account  of  lapses  in  his  arithmetic,  ap 
pears  in  a  perfectly  new  light,  suddenly  bursting  out  with 
H  thrilling  speech,  in  which  he  says.  May  their  respected 
chief  never  again  know  the  desolation  which  has  fallen 
on  his  hearth  !  and  says  a  great  variety  of  things,  be- 
ginning with  "  May  he  never  again,"  which  are  received 
with  tluind(?rs  of  applause.  In  short,  a  most  delightful 
evening  is  passed,  only  interrupted  by  a  difference  be- 
tween two  juniors,  who,  quarrelling  about  the  probable 
amount  of  Mr.  Carker's  late  receipts  per  annum,  defy 
each  other  with  decanters,  and  are  taken  out  greatly  ex- 
cited. Soda-water  is  in  general  request  at  the  office  next 
day,  and  most  of  the  party  deem  the  bill  an  imposition. 

As  to  Perch,  the  messenger,  he  is  in  a  fair  way  of 
being  ruined  for  life.  He  finds  himself  again,  constantly 
in  bars  of  public-houses,  being  treated  and  lying  dread- 
fully. It  appears  that  he  met  everybody  concerned  in 
the  late  transaction,  everywhere,  and  said  to  them,  "  Sir," 
or  "  Madam,"  as  the.  case  was,  *'  why  do  you  look  so 
pale  ?  "  at  which  eacn  f  huddered  from  head  to  foot,  and 
said,  "  Oh,  Perch !"  and  ran  away.  Either  the  conscious- 
ness of  these  enormities,  or  the  reaction  consequent  on 
liquor,  reduces  Mr.  Perch  to  an  extreme  state  of  low 
spirits  at  that  hour  of  the  evening  when  he  usually  seeks 
consolation  in  the  society  of  Mrs.  Perch  at  Balls  Pond ; 
and  Mrs.  Perch  frets  a  good  deal,  for  she  fears  his  con- 
fidence in  woman  is  shaken  now,  and  that  he  half  expects 
on  commg  home  at  night  to  find  her  gone  off  with  some 
Viscount. 

Mr.  Domb^y's  servants  are  becoming,  at  the  same 
time,  quite  dissipated,  and  unfit  for  other  service.  Tiiey 
a»ve  hot  suppers  every  night,  and  "  talk  it  over "  with 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  117 

imoking  drinks  upon  the  board.  Mr.  Towlinson  is 
always  maudlin  after  half-past  ten,  and  frequently  begt 
to  know  whetlier  he  didn't  say  that  no  good  would  ever 
eorae  of  living  in  a  corner  house  ?  They  whisper  about 
Miss  Florence,  and  wonder  where  she  is  ;  but  agree 
that  if  Mr.  Donibey  don't  know,  Mrs.  Dombey  does. 
This  brings  them  to  the  latter,  of  whom  cook  says,  she 
had  a  stately  way  though,  hadn't  she?  But  she  was  too 
high  !  They  all  agree  that  she  was  too  high,  and  Mr. 
Towlinson's  old  flame  the  house-maid  (who  is  very  vir- 
tuous), entreats  that  you  will  never  talk*  to  her  any 
more  about  people  who  holds  their  heads  up,  as  if  the 
ground  wasn't  good  enough  for  'em. 

Everything  that  is  said  and  done  about  it,  except  by 
Mr.  Dombey,  is  done  in  chorus.  Mr.  Dombey  and  the 
world  are  alone  together. 


118  DOMBEY  AND  SON 


CHAPTER  LII. 

SECRET   DfTELLIOENCE. 

Good  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  Alice,  kept  si- 
lent company  together,  in  their  own  dweUing.  It  waa 
early  in  the  fevening,  and  late  in  the  spring.  But  a  few 
days  had  elapsed  since  Mr.  Dombey  had  told  Major 
Bagstock  of  his  singular  intelligence,  singularly  obtained, 
which  might  turn  out  to  be  valueless,  and  might  turn 
out  to  be  true ;  and  the  world  was  not  satisfied  yet 

The  mother  and  daughter  sat  for  a  long  time  without 
interchanging  a  word  :  almost  without  motion.  The  old 
woman's  face  was  shrewdly  anxious  and  expectant ;  that 
of  her  daughter  was  expectant  too,  but  in  a  less  sharp 
degree,  and  sometimes  it  darkened,  as  if  with  gathering 
disappointment  and  incredulity.  The  old  woman,  with- 
out heeding  these  changes  in  its  expression,  though  her 
eyes  were  often  turned  towai"ds  it,  sat  mumbling  and 
munching,  and  listening  confidently.    ' 

Their  abode,  though  poor  and  miserable,  waa  not  so 
utterly  wretched  as  in  the  days  when  only  Good  Mrs. 
Brown  inhabited  it^  Some  few  attempts  at  cleanliness 
and  order  were  manifest,  though  made  in  a  reckless, 
gypsy  way,  that  might  have  connected  them,  at  a 
glance,  with  the  younger  woman.  The  shades  of  even- 
ing thickened  and  deepened  as  the  two  kept  silence, 
until  the  blackened  walls  were  nearly  lost  in  the  pre- 
railiu':'  gloom. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  119 

Then  Alice  broke  the  silence  which  had  lasted  so 
long,  and  said : 

"You  may  give  him  up,  mother.  He'll  not  come 
here." 

"  Death  give  him  up  !  "  returned  the  old  woman,  im- 
patiently.    "  He  wiU  come  here." 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Alice.  | 

*•  We  shall  see  him"  returned  her  mother. 

"And  doomsday,"  said  the  daughter. 

"  You  think  I'm  in  my  second  childhood,  I  know  I " 
croaked  the  old  woman.  "  That's  the  respect  and  duty 
that  I  get  from  my  own  gal,  but  I'm  wiser  than  you 
take  me  for.-  He'll  come.  T'other  day  when  I  touched 
his  coat  in  the  street,  he  looked  round  as  if  I  was  a 
toad.  But  Lord,  to  see  him  when  I  said  their  names, 
and  asked  him  if  he'd  like  to  find  out  where  they 
was ! " 

"  Was  it  so  angry  ?  "  asked  her  daughter,  roused  to 
interest  in  a  moment 

"  Angry  ?  ask  if  it  was  bloody.  That's  more  like 
the  word.  Angry?  Ha,  ha!  To  call  that  only  angry!" 
said  the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard,  and  light- 
ing a  candle,  which  displayed  the  workings  of  her  mouth 
to  ugly  advantage,  as  she  brouglit  it  to  tlie  table.  "I 
might  as  well  call  your  face  only  angry,  when  you  think 
or  talk  about  'era." 

It  was  something  different  from  that,  truly,  as  she  sat 
as  still  as  a  crouched  tigress,  with  her  kindling  eyes. 

"  Hark  ! "  said  the  old  woman,  triumphantly.  "  I 
bear  a  step  coining.  It's  not  the  tread  of  any  one  that 
lives  aliout  here,  or  comes  this  way  often.  We  don't 
walk  like  that.  We  should  grow  proud  on  such  noigh 
bors  !     Do  you  hear  him  ?  " 


1 20  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  mother,"  replied  Alice,  in  a 
low  voice.     "  Peace  !  open  the  door." 

As  she  drew  herself  within  her  shawl,  and  gathered 
it  about  her,  the  old  woman  complied ;  and  peering  out, 
and  beckoning,  gave  admission  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who 
stopped  when  he  had  set  his  foot  within  the  door,  and 
looked  distrustfully  around. 

"  It's  a  poor  place  for  a  great  gentleman  like  your 
worship,"  said  the  old  woman,  courtesying  and  chatter- 
ing.    "  I  told  you  so,  but  there's  no  harm  in   it." 

"  "Who  is  that  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  her 
companion. 

"  That's  ray  handsome  daughter,"  said  the  old  woman 
"  Your  worehip  won't  mind  her.    She  knows  all  about  it." 

A  shadow  fell  upon  his  face  not  less  expressive  than 
if  he  had  groaned  aloud,  "  Who  does  not  know  all  about 
it ! "  but  he  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  she  without  any 
acknowledgment  of  his  presence,  looked  at  him.  The 
shadow  on  his  face  was  darker  when  he  turned  big 
glance  away  from  her ;  and  even  then  it  wandered  back 
again,  furtively,  as  if  he  were  haunted  by  her  bold  eyes 
and  some  remembrance  they  inspired. 

"  Woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  the  old  witch  who 
was  chuckling  and  leering  close  at  his  elbow,  and 
who,  when  he  turned  to  address  her,  pointed  stealthily 
at  her  daughter,  and  rubbed  her  hands,  and  pointed 
again,  "  Woman  !  I  believe  that  I  am  weak  and  for- 
getful of  my  station  in  coming  here,  but  you  know  why 
I  come,  and  what  you  offered  when  you  stopped  me  in 
the  street  the  other  day.  What  is  it  that  you  have  to 
tell  me  concerning  what  I  want  to  know  ;  and  how  does 
it  happen  that  I  can  find  voluntary  intelligence  in  a 
hovel  like    this."  with    a   disdainful   glance  about    himi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  12l 

•*  when  I  have  exerted  my  power  and  means  to  obtain 
it  in  vain  ?  I  do  not  think,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  during  which  he  had  observed  her,  sternly,  "that 
you  are  so  audacious  as  to  mean  to  trifle  with  me,  or 
endeavor  to  impose  upon  me.  But-  if  you  have  that 
purpose,  you  had  better  stop  on  the  threshold  of  your 
scheme.  My  humor  is  not  a  trifling  one,  and  my  ac- 
knowledgment will  be  severe." 

"  Oh  a  proud,  hard  gentleman ! "  chuckled  the  old 
woman,  shaking  her  head,  and  rubbing  hei  shrivelled 
hands,  "  oh  hard,  hard,  hard  !  But  your  worship  shall 
see  with  your  own  eyes  and  hear  with  your  own  ears ; 
not  with  ours  —  and  if  your  worship's  put  upon  their 
track,  you  won't  mind  paying  something  for  it,  will  you, 
honorable  deary  ?  " 

"  Money,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  apparently  relieved, 
and  reassured  by  this  inquiry,  "will  bring  about  unlikely 
things,  I  know.  It  may  turn  even  means  as  unexpected 
and  unpromising  as  these,  to  account.  Yes.  For  any 
reliable  information  I  receive,  I  will  pay.  But  I  must 
have  the  information  first,  and  judge  for  myself  of  its 
value." 

"  Do  you  know  nothing  more  powerful  than  money?" 
asked  the  younger  woman,  without  rising,  or  altering  her 
attitude. 

"  Not  here,  I  should  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  You  should  know  of  something  that  is  more  power- 
fill  elsewhere,  as  I  judge,"  she  returned.  "  Do  you  know 
nothing  of  a  woman's  anger  ?  " 

"  You  have  a  saucy  tongue,  jade,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Not  usually,"  she  answered,  without  any  show  of 
tmotion  :  "  I  speak  to  you  now,  that  ycu  may  under- 
stand us  better,  and  rely  more  on  us.     A  woman's  angel 


122  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

is  pretty  much  the  same  here,  as  in  your  fine  house.  1 
am  angry.  I  have  been  so,  many  years.  I  have  as 
good  cjiuse  for  my  anger  as  you  have  for  yours,  and  its 
object  is  the  same  man." 

He  started,  in  spite  of  himself,  and  looked  at  her  with 
astonishment. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  laugh.  "  Wide  as  the 
distance  may  seem  between  us,  it  is  so.  How  it  is  so,  is 
no  matter ;  that  is  my  story,  and  I  keep  my  story  to  ray- 
self.  I  would  bring  you  and  him  together,  because  I 
have  a  rage  against  him.  My  mother  there,  is  avari- 
cious arid  poor ;  and  she  would  sell  any  tidings  she  could 
glean,  or  anything,  or  anybody,  for  money.  It  is  fair 
enough  pf  rhaps,  that  you  should  pay  her  some,  if  she 
can  help  you  to  what  you  want  to  know.  But  that  is 
not  my  mic>tive.  I  have  told  you  what  mine  is,  and  it 
would  be  as  strong  and  all  sufficient  with  me  if  you  hag- 
gled and  bargained  with  her  for  a  sixpence.  I  have  done. 
My  saucy  tongue  says  no  more,  if  you  wait  here  till  sun- 
rise to-morrow." 

The  old  Avoman,  who  had  shown  great  uneasiness  dur- 
ing this  speech  which  had  a  tendency  to  depreciate  her 
expected  gains,  pulled  Mr.  Dombey  softly  by  the  sleeve, 
and  whispered  to  him  not  to  mind  her.  He  glanced  at 
them  both,  by  turns,  with  a  haggard  look,  and  said,  ip  a 
deeper  voire  than  was  usual  with  him : 

"  Go  on  —  what  do  you  know  ?  " 

**  Oh,  rjfi  so  fast,  your  worship!  we  must  wait  for 
Bome  one,''  answered  the  old  woman.  "  It's  to  be  got 
from  some  one  else  —  wormed  out — screwed  and  twisted 
from  him." 

"■  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

**  Patience,"  she  croaked,  laying  her  hand,  like  a  claw, 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  123 

apon  his  arm.  «  Patience.  I'll  get  at  it.  I  know  1 
can  !  If  he  was  to  hold  it  back  from  me,"  said  Good 
Mrs.  Brown,  crooking  her  ten  fingers,  "  I'd  tear  it  out 
of  him  ! " 

Mr.  Dombey  followed  her  with  his  eyes  as  she  hob 
bled  to  the  door,  and  looked  out  again:  and  then  hia 
glance  sought  her  daughter ;  but  she  remained  impas- 
sive, silent,  and  regardless  of  him. 

"  Do  you  tell  me,  woman,"  he  said,  when  the  bent 
figure  of  Mrs.  Brown  came  back,  shaking  its  head  and 
chattering  to  itself,  "that  there  is  another  person  ex- 
pected here  ?  " 

"  Yes  ! "  sju'd  the  old  woman,  looking  up  into  his  face, 
and  nodding. 

"  From  whom  you  are  to  extract  the  intelligence  that 
is  to  be  useful  to ,  me  ?  " 

*'  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman  nodding  again. 

"  A  stranger  ?  " 

"  Chut ! "  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  shrill  laugh. 
"  What  signifies  !  Well,  well ;  no.  No  stranger  to  your 
worship.  But  lie  won't  see  you.  He'd  be  afraid  of  you, 
and  wouldn't  talk.  You'll  stand  behind  that  door,  and 
judge  him  for  yourself.  We  don't  ask  to  be  believed  on 
trust.  What !  Your  worship  doubts  the  room  behind 
the  door  ?  Oh  the  suspicion  of  you  rich  gentlefolks  I 
Look  at  it,  then." 

Her  sharp  eye  had  detected  an  involuntary  expres- 
sion of  tliis  feeling  on  his  part,  which  was  not  unreason- 
able under  the  circumstances.  In  satisfaction  of  it  she 
now  took  the  candle  to  the  door  she  spoke  of.  Mr. 
Dombey  looked  in ;  assured  himself  that  it  was  an 
empty,  crazy  room ;  and  signed  to  her  to  put  the  ligli/ 
back  in  its  place 


124  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"How  long,"  he  asked,  "before  this  person  con^s?" 

"  Not  long,"  she  answered.  "  Would  your  worship  sit 
down  for  a  few  odd  minutes  ?  " 

He  made  no  answer ;  but  began  pacing  the  room  with 
an  irresolute  air,  as  if  he  were  undecided  whether  to  re* 
main  or  depart,  and  as  if  he  had  some  quarrel  with  him- 
Belf  for  being  there  at  all.  But  soon  liis  tread  grew 
Blower  and  heavier,  and  his  face  more  sternly  thoughtful; 
as  the  object  with  which  he  had  come,  fixed  itself  in  his 
mind,  and  dilated  there  again. 

While  he  thus  walked  up  and  down  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground,  Mrs.  Brown,  in  the  chair  from  which  she 
6ad  risen  to  receive  him,  sat  listening  anew.  The  mo- 
Qotony  of  his  step,  or  the  uncertainty  of  age,  made  her 
80  slow  of  hearing,  that  a  footfall  without  had  sounded 
in  her  daughter's  ears  for  some  moments,  and  she  had 
looked  up  hastily  to  warn  her  mother  of  its  approach, 
before  the  old  woman  was  roused  by  it.  But  then  she 
started  from  her  seat,  and  whispering  "  Here  he  is ! " 
hurried  her  visitor  to  his  place  of  observation,  and  put  a 
bottle  and  glass  upon  the  table,  with  such  alacrity  as  to 
be  ready  to  fling  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  Rob  the 
Grinder  on  his  appearance  at  the  door. 

"  And  here's  my  bonny  boy,"  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  "  at 
last !  —  oho,  oho !     You're  like  my  own  son,  Robby  !  " 

"  Oh  !  Misses  Brown ! "  remonstrated  the  Grinder. 
"  Don't !  Can't  you  be  fond  of  a  cove  without  squeedg 
ing  and  throttling  of  him !  Take  care  of  the  bird-cage 
in  my  hand,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Tliinks  of  a  bird-cage  afore  me ! "  cried  the  old 
woman,  apostrophizing  the  ceiling.  "  Me  that  feels  more 
than  a  mother  for  him  !  " 

**  Well,  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Misses 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  125 

Brown."  said  the  unfortunate  youth,  greatly  aggravated ; 
"but  you're  so  jealous  of  a  cove.  I'm  very  fond  of 
you  myself,  and  all  that,  of  course ;  but  I  don't  smother 
you,  do  I,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

He  looked  and  spoke  a»  if  he  would  have  been  far 
from  objecting  to  do  so,  however,  on  a  favorable  occa- 
sion. 

"  And  to  talk  about  bird-cages,  too  !  "  whimpered  the 
Grinder.  "  As  if  that  was  a  crime !  Why,  look'ee 
here !     Do  you  know  who  this  belongs  to  ?  " 

"  To  Master,  dear  ?  "  said  the  old  woman  with  a  grin. 

"  Ah  ! "  replied  the  Grinder,  lifting  a  large  cage  tied 
up  in  a  wrapper,  on  the  table,  and  untying  it  with  his 
teeth  and  hands.     "It's  our  parrot,  this  is." 

"Mr.  Carker's  parrot,  Rob?" 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown  ?  "  re- 
turned the  goaded  Grinder.  "  What  do  you  go  naming 
names  for  ?  I'm  blest,"  said  Rob,  pulling  his  hair  with 
both  hands  in  the  exasperation  of  his  feelings,  "if  she 
a'n't  enough  to  make  a  cove  run  wild ! " 

"  What !  Do  you  snub  me,  thankless  boy  ! "  cried  the 
old  woman,  with  ready  vehemence. 

"  Good  gracious,  Misses  Brown,  no ! "  returned  the 
Grinder,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  Was  there  ever  such 
a  '.  —  Don't  I  dote  upon  you,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"  Do  you,  sweet  Rob  ?  Do  you  truly,  chickabiddy  ?  " 
With  that,  Mrs.  Brown  held  him  in  her  fond  embrace 
once  mere  ;  and  did  not  release  him  until  he  had  made 
several  violent  and  ineffectual  struggles  with  his  legs, 
and  his  hair  was  standing  on  end  all  over  his  head. 

"  Oh !  "  returned  the  Grinder,  "  what  a  thing  it  is  to 
be  perfectly  pitched  into  with  affection  like  this  here.  I 
wish  she  was  — .    How  have  you  been,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 


l26  DOMBKY   AND   SON. 

"  All !  Not  here  since  this  night  week  !  "  said  the  oW 
m)man,  contemplating  him  with  a  look  of  reproach. 

''■  Good  gracious,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grin- 
der, "  I  said  to-night's  a  week,  that  I'd  come  to-night, 
didn't  I  ?  And  here  I  am.  How  you  do  go  on  !  I  wish 
you'd  be  a  little  rational,  Misses  Brown.  I'm  hoarse 
with  saying  things  in  my  defence,  and  my  very  face  is 
ehiny  with  being  hugged."  He  rubbed  it  hard  with  hia 
sleeve,  as  if  to  remove  the  tender  polish  in  question. 

"  Drink  a  little  drop  to  comfort  you,  my  Robin,"  said 
the  old  woman,  filling  the  glass  from  the  bottle  and  giv- 
ing it  to  him. 

"•  Thank'ee,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder. 
''  Here's  your  health.  And  long  may  you  —  et  cetrer." 
Which  to  judge  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  did  not 
include  any  very  choice  blessings.  "  And  here's  her 
health,"  said  the  Grinder,  glancing  at  Alice,  who  sat 
with  her  eyes  fixed,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  on  the  wall 
behind  him,  but  in  reality  on  Mr.  Dombey's  face  at  the 
door,  "  and  wishing  her  the  same  and  many  of  'em  !  " 

He  drained  the  glass  to  these  two  sentiments,  and  set 
it  down. 

"  Well,  I  say.  Misses  Brown  ! "  he  proceeded.  "  To 
go  on  a  little  rational  now.  You're  a  judge  of  birds,  and 
up  to  their  ways,  as  I  know  to  my  cost." 

"  Cost ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Satisfaction,  I  mean,"  returned  the  Grinder.  '*  How 
you  do  take  up  a  cove,  Misses  Brown  !  You've  put  it 
rU  out  of  my  head  again." 

"  Judge  of  birds,  Kobby,"  suggested  the  old  woman. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  Grinder,  "  Well,  I've  got  to  take  care 
of  this  parrot  —  certain  things  being  sold,  and  a  certaiu 
Mtablishoaent  broke  up  —  and  as  I  don't  want  no  nolio« 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  187 

took  at  present,  I  wish  you'd  attend  to  her  for  a  week  or 
K),  and  give  her  board  and  lodging,  will  you  ?  If  I  musl 
come  backwards  and  forwards,"  mused  the  Grinder  with 
a  dejected  face,  "  I  may  as  well  have  something  to  come 
for." 

"Somctliing  to  come  for?"  screamed  the  old  woman. 

"  Besides  you,  I  mean,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
craven  Rob.  "  Not  that  I  want  any  inducement  but 
yourself,  Misse.s  Brown,  I'm  sure.  Don't  begin  again, 
for  goodness   sake." 

"  Ha  don't  care  for  me  !  He  don't  care  for  me,  as  I 
care  for  him  ! ''  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  lifting  up  her  skinnj 
hands.     "  But  I'll  take  care  of  his  bird." 

"  Take  good  care  of  it  too,  you  know.  Misses  Brown," 
Baid  Rob,  shaking  his  head.  "  If  you  was  so  much  as  to 
stroke  its  feathers  once  the  wrong  way,  I  believe  it  would 
be  found  out." 

"  Ah,  so  sharp  as  that,  Rob  ? "  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
quickly. 

"  Sharp,  Misses  Brown  !  "  repeated  Rob.  "  But  this 
is  not  to  be  talked  about." 

Checking  himself  abruptly,  and  not  without  a  fearful 
glance  across  the  room,  Rob  filled  the  glass  again,  and 
having  slowly  emptied  it,  shook  his  head,  and  began  to 
draw  his  fingers  across  and  across  the  wires  of  the  par- 
rot's cage,  by  way  of  a  diversion  from  the  dangeroup 
theme  that  had  just  been  broached. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  slyly,  and  hitching  her  chail 
Dearer  his,  and  looking  in  at  the  parrot,  who  came  down 
ftom  the  gilded  dome  at  her  call,  said  : 

"  Out  of  place  now,  Robby  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Qrin- 
Icr  '!hortlr. 


1 28  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  Board  wages,  perhaps,  Rob  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

«  Pratty  Polly  !  "  said  the  Grinder. 

The  old  woman  darted  a  glance  at  hira  that  might 
have  warned  him  to  consider  his  ears  in  danger,  but  it 
was  his  turn  to  look  in  at  the  parrot  iiow,  and  howevei 
expressive  his  imagination  may  have  made  her  angry 
scowl,  it  was  unseen  by  his  bodily  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  Ma-^ter  didn't  take  you  with  him,  Rob," 
said  the  old  woman,  in  a  wheedling  voice,  but  with  in- 
creased malignity  of  aspect. 

Rob  was  so  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  parrot, 
and  in  trolling  his  forefinger  on  the  wires,  that  he  made 
no  answer. 

The  old  woman  had  her  clutch  within  a  hair's-breadth 
of  his  shock  of  hair  as  it  stooped  over  the  table  ;  but  she 
restrained  her  fingers,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  choked 
with  its  efforts  to  be  coaxing : 

"  Robby,  my  child." 

"  Well,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grinder. 

"  I  say,  I  wonder  Master  didn't  take  you  with  him, 
dear." 

"  Never  you  mind.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  Grin- 
der. 

Mrs.  Brown  instantly  directed  the  clutch  of  her  right 
hand  at  his  hair,  and  the  clutch  of  her  left  hand  at  his 
throat  and  held  on  to  the  object  of  her  fond  affecftcn 
with  such  extraordinary  fury,  that  his  face  began  to 
blacken  in  a  moment. 

"  Misses  Brown ! "  exclaimed  the  Grinder,  "  let  go, 
will  you !  "What  are  you  doing  of !  Help,  young 
woman  I     Misses  Brow  —  Brow  —  ! " 

The  young  woman,  however,  equally  unmoved  by  his 
iirect  appeal  to  her,  and  by  his  inarticulate  utterance, 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  129 

remained  quite  neutral,  until,  after  struggling  with  hi.^ 
assailant  into  a  corner,  Rob  disengaged  himself,  and 
stood  there  panting  and  fenced  in  by  his  own  elbows, 
while  the  old  woman,  panting  too,  and  stamping  with 
rage  and  eagerness,  appeared  to  be  collecting  her  ener- 
gies for  another  swoop  upon  him.  At  tliis  crisis  Alice 
interposed  her  voice,  but  not  in  the  Grinder's  favor,  by 
eaying, 

"  Well  done,  mother.     Tear  him  to  pieces  ! " 

"  What,  young  woman  !  "  blubbered  Rob  ;  "  are  you 
against  me  too  ?  What  have  I  been  and  done  ?  What 
ani  I  to  be  tore  to  pieces  for,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
Why  do  you  take  and  choke  a  cove  who  has  never  done 
you  any  harm,  neither  of  you  ?  Call  yourselves  females, 
too  !  "  said  the  frightened  and  afflicted  Grinder,  with  hia 
coat-cuff  at  his  eye.  "  I'm  surprised  at  you  I  Where's 
your  feminine  tenderness  ?  " 

''You  tliankless  dog!"  gasped  Mrs.  Brown.  "You 
impudent,  insulting  dog!" 

•'  What  have  I  been  and  done  to  go  and  give  you 
offence.  Misses  Brown  ?  "  retorted  the  tearful  Rob 
**  You  was  very  much  attached  to  me  a  minute  ago:" 

"  To  cut  me  off  with  his  short  answers  and  his  sulky 
words,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  Me !  Because  I  happen 
to  be  curious  to  have  a  little  bit  of  gossip  about  Master 
and  the  lady,  to  dare  to  play  at  fast  and  loose  with  me  I 
But  I'll  talk  to  you  no  more,  my  lad.     Now  go !  " 

"  I  am  sure,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  abject 
Grinder,  "I  never  insiniwated  that  1  wished  to  go. 
Don't  talk  like  that.  Misses  Biowu,  if  you  please." 

"I  won't  talk  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  an 
action  of  her  crooked  fingers  thai  made  him  shrink 
Into    half  his    natural    compass    in    the    conur.     "Not 

VOL.   IV.  9 


130  DOMBEr  AND  SON. 

another  word  with  him  shall  pass  my  lips.  He's  an 
ungrateful  hound.  I  cast  him  off.  Now  let  him  go ! 
And  I'll  slip  those  after  him  ihat  shall  talk  too  much  ; 
that  won't  be  shook  away  ;  that'll  hang  to  him  like 
leeches,  and  slink  arter  him  like  tuxes.  What  !  He 
knows  *em.  He  knows  his  old  games  and  his  old  ways. 
If  he's  forgotten  'em,  they'll  soon  remind  him.  Now 
let  him  go,  and  see  how  he'll  do  Master's  business, 
and  keep  Master's  secrets,  with  such  company  always 
following  him  up  and  down.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  He'll  find 
'em  a  different  sort  from  you  and  me,  Ally ;  close  as 
he  is  with  you  and  me.  Now  let  him  go,  now  let 
him  go ! " 

The  old  woman,  to  the  unspeakable  dismay  of  the 
Grinder,  walked  her  twisted  figure  round  and  round 
in  a  ring  of  some  four  feet  in  diameter,  constantly  re- 
peating these  words,  and  shaking  her  fist  above  her 
head,  and  working  her  mouth  about. 

"  Misses  Brown,"  pleaded  Rob,  coming  a  little  out 
of  his  corner,  "  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  injure  a  cove, 
on  second  thoughts,  and  in  cold  blood,  would  you  ? " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  still  wrath- 
fuUy  pursuing  her  circle.  "  Now  let  him  go,  now  let 
him  go ! " 

"  Misses  Brown,"  urged  the  tormented  Grinder,  "  I 
didn't  mean  to  —  Oh,  what  a  thing  it  is  for  a  cove  to 
get  into  such  a  line  as  this  !  —  I  was  only  careful  of 
talking,  Misses  Brown,  because  I  always  am,  on  ac 
count  of  his  being  up  to  everything ;  but  I  might  have 
known  it  wouldn't  have  gone  any  farther.  I'm  sure 
I'm  quite  agreeable,"  with  a  wretched  face,  "  for  any 
little  bit  of  gossip.  Misses  Biown.  Don't  go  on  like 
Ihis,  if  you  please.     Oh,  couldn't  you  have  tlie  gorxi* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  131 

oess  to  put  in  a  word  for  a  miserable  cove,  here  !  "  said 
the  Grinder,  appealing  in  desperation  to  the  daughter. 

"  Come,  mother,  you  hear  what  he  says,"  she  inter 
posed,  in  her  stern  voice,  and  with  an  impatient  action 
of  her  head ;  "  try  him  once  more,  and  if  you  fall  out 
with  him  again,  ruin  him,  if  you  like,  and  have  dono 
with  him." 

Mrs.  Brown,  moved  as  it  seemed  by  this  very  tendw 
exhortation,  presently  began  to  howl;  and  softening  by 
degrees,  took  the  apologetic  Grinder  to  her  arms,  who 
embraced  her  with  a  face  of  unutterable  woe,  and  like 
a  victim  as  he  was,  resumed  his  former  seat,  close  by 
the  side  of  his  venerable  friend ;  whom  he  suffered,  not 
without  much  constrained  sweetness  of  countenance,  com- 
bating vei'y  expressive  physiognomical  revelations  of  an 
opposite  character,  to  draw  his  arm  through  hers,  and 
keep  it  there. 

"And  how's  Master,  deary  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
when,  sitting  in  tliis  amicable  posture,  they  had  pledged 
each  other. 

"  Hush  !  If  you'd  be  so  good,  Misses  Brown,  as  to 
speak  a  little  lower,"  Rob  implored.  "  Why,  he's  pretty 
well,  thank'ee,  I  suppose." 

"  You're  not  out  of  place,  Robby  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown 
in  a  wheedling  tone. 

"  Why,  I'm  not  exactly  out  of  place  nor  in,"  faltered 
Eob.     "I  —  I'm  still  in  pay.  Misses  Brown." 

"  And  nothing  to  do,  Rob  ?  " 

"Nothing  particular  to  do  just  now.  Misses  Brown 
Vut  to  —  keep  my  eyes  open,"  said  the  Grinder,  roUr 
ing  them  in  a  forlorn  way. 

"Master  abroad,  Rob?" 

"Oh,  lor  goodness'  sake.  Misses  Brown,  couldn't  jou 


132  DOMBET  AND  SONT. 

gossip  with  a  cove  about  anything  else  !  "  cried  tha 
Grinder,  in  a  burst  of  despair. 

The  impetuous  Mrs.  Brown  rising  directly,  the  tor- 
tured Grinder  detained  her,  stammering  "  Ye-yes,  Misses 
Brovn,  I  believe  he's  abroad.  What's  she  staring  at  ?  " 
he  added,  in  allusion  to  the  daughter,  whose  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  face  that  now  again  looked  out  behind 
hiui. 

"  Don't  mind  her,  lad,"  said  the  old  woman,  holding 
him  closer  to  prevent  his  turning  round.  "  It's  her  way 
—  her  way.  Tell  me,  Rob.  Did  you  ever  see  the 
lady,  deary?" 

*'  Oh,  Misses  Brown,  what  lady  ? "  cried  the  Grinder 
in  a  tone  of  piteous  supplication. 

"  What  lady  ?  "  she  retorted.  "  The  lady  ;  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  see  her  once,"  replied  Rob. 

"  The  night  she  went  away,  Robby,  eh  ?  "  said  the 
old  woman  in  his  ear,  and  taking  note  of  every  change 
in  his  face,  "  Aha  !     I  know  it  was  that  night.** 

"  Well,  if  you  know  it  was  that  night,  you  know, 
Misses  Brown,"  replied  Rob,  "  it's  no  use  putting 
pinchers  into  a  cove  to  make  him  say  so." 

"Where  did  they  go  that  night,  Rob?  Straight 
away  ?  How  did  they  go  ?  Where  did  you  see  her  ? 
Did  she  laugh  ?  Did  she  cry  ?  Tell  me  all  about 
it,"  cried  the  old  hag,  holding  him  closer  yet,  patting 
the  hand  that  was  drawn  through  his  arm  against  hor 
other  hand,  and  searching  every  line  in  his  face  with 
her  bleared  eyes.  "  Come  !  Begin  !  1  want  to  be 
told  all  about  iL  What,  Rob,  boy !  You  and  me  can 
keep  a  secret  together,  eh  ?  We've  done  so  befoi* 
now.     Where  did  they  go  first,  Rob?" 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  188 

The  wretched  Grinder  made  a  gasp,  and  a  pause. 

**Are  you  dumb?"  said  the  old  woman,  angrily. 

•^  Lord,  Misses  Brown,  no !  You  expect  a  cove  to 
be  a  flash  of  lightning.  I  wish  I  was  the  electric 
fluency,"  muttered  the  bewildered  Grinder.  "I'd  have 
a  shock  at  somebody,  that  would  settle  their  busincas." 

"  What  do  you  say  ? "  asked  the  old  woman,  with  t  j 
giin.  •< 

"I'm  wishing  my  love  to  you.  Misses  Brown,"  re- 
tamed  the  false  Rob,  seeking  consolation  in  the  glass. 
"  Where  did  they  go  to  first,  was  it !  Him  and  her 
do  you  mean  ?  '* 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  eagerly.     "  Them  twa" 

"  Why  they  didn't  go  nowhere  —  not  together,  I 
mean,"  answered  Rob. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him,  as  though  she  bad 
a  strong  impulse  upon  her  to  make  another  clutch  at 
his  head  and  throat,  but  was  restrained  by  a  certain 
dogged  mystery  in  his  face. 

"That  was  the  art  of  it,"  said  the  reluctant  Grinder  j 
"  that's  the  way  nobody  saw  'em  go,  or  has  been  able  to 
Bay  how  tiiey  did  go.  They  went  different  ways,  I  tell 
you.  Misses  Brown." 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  !  To  meet  at  an  appointed  place,* 
chuckled  the  old  woman,  after  a  moment's  silent  and 
keen  scrutiny  of  his  face. 

"Why,  if  they  weren't  a-going  to  meet  somewhere, 
I  suppose  they  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home, 
mightn't  (hey.  Misses  Brown?"  returned  the  unwilling 
Grinder. 

"Well,  Rob?  Well?"  said  the  old  woman,  draw- 
ing his  arm  yet  tighter  through  her  own,  as  if,  in  bet 
Bagemess,  she  were  afraid  of  his  slipping  away. 


134  DOMBEY    AND  SON. 

"  Wliai,  haven't  we  talked  enough  yet,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 
returned  the  Grinder,  who,  between  his  sense  of  injury, 
his  sense  of  liquor,  and  his  sense  of  being  on  tiie  rack, 
had  become  so  lachrymose,  that  at  almost  every  answer 
he  scooped  his  coat-cuff  into  one  or  olher  of  his  eyea, 
and  uttered  an  unavailing  whine  of  renionstrance.  "  Did 
she  laugh  that  night,  was  it  ?  Didn't  you  ask  if  she 
lAughed,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"  Or  cried  ?  "   added  the  old  woman,  nodding  assent. 

"  Neither,"  sju'd  the  Grinder.  *'  She  kept  as  steady 
when  she  and  me  —  oh,  I  see  you  will  have  out  of 
me.  Misses  Brown  !  But  take  your  solemn  oath  now, 
that  you'll  never  tell  anybody." 

This  Mrs.  Brown  very  readily  did  :  being  naturally 
Jesuitical ;  and  having  no  other  intention  in  the  matter 
than  that  her  concealed  visitor  should  hear  for  him- 
self. 

"  She  kept  as  steady,  then,  when  she  and  me  went 
down  to  Southampton,"  said  the  Grinder,  "as  a  image. 
In  the  morning  she  was  just  the  same,  Misses  Brown. 
And  when  she  went  away  in  the  packet  before  daylight, 
by  herself  —  me  pretending  to  be  her  servant,  and  seeing 
her  safe  aboard  —  she  was  just  the  same.  Now,  are  you 
contented,  Mrs.  Brown  ?  " 

"  No,  Rob.  Not  yet,"  answered  Mrs.  Brown,  deci- 
sively. 

"  Oh  here's  a  woman  for  you  !  "  cried  the  unfortunate 
Bob,  in  an  outburst  of  feeble  lamentation  over  his  own 
helplessness.  "  What  did  you  wish  to  know  next.  Mis- 
ses Brown  ?  " 

"  What  became  of  Master  ?  Where  did  be  go  ? " 
She  inquired,  still  holding  him  tight,  and  locking  ok)s« 
mto  his  face,  with  her  sharp  eyes. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  18d 

*•  Upon  my  5oul,  I  don't  know,  Misses  Brown,  an 
swered  Rob.  "  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  know  what  he 
did,  nor  where  he  went,  nor  anything  about  him.  I 
only  know  what  he  said  to  me  as  a  caution  to  hold  my 
tonjxu(!,  wlien  we  parted  ;  and  I  tell  you  this,  Mrs, 
Brown,  as  a  friend,  that  sooner  than  ever  repeat  a  word 
of  what  we're  saying  now,  you  had  better  take  and 
shoot  yourself,  or  shut  yourself  up  in  this  house,  and 
set  it  afire,  for  there's  nothing  he  wouldn't  do,  to  be 
revenged  upon  you.  You  don't  know  him  half  as  well 
as  I  do,  Misses  Brown.  You're  never  safe  from  him,  I 
tell  you." 

"  Haven't  I  taken  an  oath,"  retorted  the  old  woman, 
"  and  won't  I  keep  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  will,  Mi.sses  Brown," 
returned  Rob,  somewhat  doubtfully,  and  not  without  a 
latent  threatening  in  his  manner.  "  For  your  own  sake, 
quite  as  much  as  mine." 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  gave  her  this  friendly  cau- 
tion, and  emphasized  it  with  a  nodding  of  his  head ;  but 
finding  it  uncomfortable  to  encounter  the  yellow  face 
with  its  grotesque  action,  and  the  ferret  eyes  with  their 
keen  old  wintry  gaze,  so  close  to  his  own,  he  looked 
down  uneasily  and  sat  shuffling  in  his  chair,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  bring  himself  to  a  sullen  declaration  that 
he  would  answer  no  more  questions.  The  old  woman, 
«tiU  holding  him  as  before,  took  this  opportunity  of  rais- 
ing the  forefinger  of  her  right  hand,  in  the  air,  as  a 
stealthy  signal  to  the  concealed  observer  to  give  partic- 
ular attention  to  what  was  about  to  follow. 

"  Rob,"  she  said,  in  her  most  coaxing  tone. 

**  Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,  what's  the  raattef 
acw  ?  "  returned  the  exasperated  Grinder. 


136  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

"  Rob !  where  did  the  lady  and  Master  appoint  to 
meef  ?  " 

Rob  shuffled  more  and  more,  and  looked  up  and  locked 
down,  and  bit  his  thumb,  and  dried  it  on  his  waistcoat, 
and  finally  said,  eying  his  tormentor  askant,  "  How  should 
/  know,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

The  old  woman  held  up  her  finger  again,  as  before, 
and  replying,  "  Come  lad !  It's  no  use  leading  me  to 
that,  and  there  leaving  me.  I  want  to  know  "  —  waited 
for  his  answer. 

Rob,  after  a  discomfited  pause,  suddenly  broke  out 
with,  "  How  can  I  pronounce  the  names  of  foreign 
places,  Mrs.  Brown  ?  What  an  unreasonable  woman, 
you  are !  " 

"  But  you  have  heard  it  said,  Robby,"  she  retorted 
firmly,  "and  you  know  what  it  sounded  like.     Come!" 

"  I  never  heard  it  said,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
Grinder, 

"  Then,"  retorted  the  old  woman  quickly,  "  you  have 
seen  it  written,  and  you  can  spell  it." 

Rob,  with  a  petulant  exclamation  between  laugliing 
and  crying  —  for  he  was  penetrated  with  some  admira- 
tion of  Mrs.  Brown's  cunning,  even  through  this  perse- 
cution —  after  some  reluctant  fumbling  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  produced  from  it  a  little  piece  of  chalk.  The 
old  woman's  eyes  sparkled  when  she  saw  it  between 
his  thumb  and  finger,  and  hastily  clearing  a  space  on 
the  deal  table,  that  he  might  write  the  word  there,  she 
once  more  made  her  signal  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  beforehand,  what  it  is.  Misses 
Brown,"  said  Rob,  "  it's  no  use  asking  me  anything  else. 
[  won't  answer  anything  else ;  I  can't.  How  long  it 
was  to  be  before  they  met,  or  whose  plan  it  was  tliat 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  181 

they  was  to  go  away  alone,  I  don't  know  no  more  tiian 
you  do.  I  don't  know  any  more  about  it.  If  1  was  to 
tell  you  liow  I  found  out  this  word,  you'd  believe  that. 
Shall  1  tell  you,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"  Yos,  Rob." 

"Well  then  Misses  Brown.  The  way — now  you 
won't  ask  any  more,  you  know  ? "  said  Rob,  turning 
his  eyes,  which  were  now  fast  getting  drowsy  and  stupid, 
upon  her. 

"  Not  another  word,"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Well  then,  the  way  was  this.  When  a  certain  per- 
son left  the  lady  with  me,  he  put  a  piece  of  paper  with 
a  direction  written  on  it  in  the  lady's  hand,  saying  it 
was  in  case  she  should  forget.  She  wasn't  afraid  of 
forgetting,  for  she  tore  it  up  as  soon  as  his  back  was 
turned,  and  when  I  put  up  the  carriage-steps,  I  shook 
out  one  of  the  pieces  —  she  sprinkled  the  rest'  out  of 
the  window,  I  suppose,  for  there  was  none  there  after- 
wards, though  1  looked  for  'em.  There  was  only  one 
word  on  it,  and  that  was  this,  if  you  must  and  will 
know.  But  remember!  You're  upon  your  oath.  Misses 
Brown !  " 

Mrs.  Brown  knew  that,  she  said.  Rob,  having  noth- 
ing more  to  say,  began  to  chalk,  slowly  and  laboriously, 
on  the  table. 

" '  D,' "  the  old  woman  read  aloud,  when  ho  had 
formed  the  letter. 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Misses  Brown  ? "  ho 
ixclaimed,  covering  it  with  his  hand,  and  turning  impa- 
iicntly  upon  her,  "  I  won't  have  it  read  out.  Be  quiet, 
will  you  !  " 

"  Then  write  large,  Rob,"  she  returned,  repeating  hef 
<ecret  signal ;  "  for  my  eyes  are  not  good,  Qveo  Rt  print," 


138  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Miitleiiiig  to  himself,  and  returning  to  bis  work  with 
an  ill-will,  Rob  went  on  with  the  word.  As  he  bent  bia 
head  down,  the  person  for  whose  infornoation  be  so  un- 
consciously labored,  moved  from  the  door  behind  him  to 
within  a  short  stride  of  his  shoulder,  and  looked  eagerly 
towards  the  creeping  ti-ack  of  his  hand  upon  the  table. 
At  the  same  time,  Alice,  from  her  opposite  chair,  watched 
it  narrowly  as  it  shaped  the  letters,  and  repeated  each 
one  on  her  lips  as  he  made  it,  without  articulating  it 
aloud.  At  the  end  of  every  letter  her  eyes  and  Mr. 
Dombey's  met,  as  if  each  of  them  sought  to  be  confirmed 
by  the  other ;  and  thus  they  both  spelt  D.  I.  J.  O.  N. 

"  There  !  "  said  the  Grinder,  moistening  the  palm  of 
his  hand  hastily,  to  obliterate  the  woixi ;  and  not  content 
with  smearing  it  out,  rubbing  and  planing  all  trace  of 
it  away  with  his  coat-sleeve,  until  the  very  color  of  the 
chalk  was  gone  from  the  table.  "  Now,  I  hope  you're 
contented,  Misses  Brown  !  " 

The  old  woman,  in  token  of  her  being  so,  released  his 
arm  and  patted  his  back ;  and  the  Grinder,  overcome 
with  mortification,  cross-examination,  and  liquor,  folded 
his  arms  on  the  table,  laid  his  head  upon  them,  and 
fell  asleep. 

Not  until  he  had  been  heavily  asleep  some  time,  and 
was  snoring  roundly,  did  the  old  woman  turn  towards 
tlie  door  where  Mr.  Dombey  stood  concealed,  and  beckon 
him  to  come  through  the  room,  and  pass  out.  Even 
tlien,  she  hovered  over  Rob,  ready  to  blind  him  with 
her  hands,  or  strike  his  head  down,  if  he  should  raise 
it  while  the  secret  step  was  crossing  to  the  door.  But 
tliough  her  glance  took  sharp  cognizance  of  the  sleeper, 
t  was  sharp  too  for  the  waking  man  ;  and  when  he 
touched  her  hand  with  his,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  can- 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  I.tni 

tion,  made  a  chinking,  golden  sound,  it  was  as  bright  and 
greedy  as  a  raven's. 

The  daughter's  dark  gaze  followed  hira  to  the  door, 
and  noted  well  how  pale  he  was,  and  how  his  hurried 
tread  indicated  that  the  least  delay  was  an  insupportable 
restraint  upon  hira,  and  how  he  was  burning  to  be  ac- 
tive and  away.  As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  she 
looked  found  at  her  mother.  The  old  woman  trotted 
to  her  ;  opened  her  hand  to  show  what  was  within  ;  >ind 
lightly  closing  it  again  in  her  jealousy  and  avarice, 
whispered  : 

"  What  will  he  do,  Ally  ?  " 

"  Mischief.*'  said  the  daughter. 

*'  Murder  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  He's  a  madman,  in  his  wounded  pride,  and  may  do 
that,  tor  anything  we  can  say,  or  he  eitiier." 

Her  glance  was  brigliter  than  her  mother's,  and  the 
fire  that  shone  in  it  was  fiercer ;  but  her  face  was  color- 
less, even  to  her  lips. 

They  said  no  more,  but  sat  apart ;  the  mother  com- 
muning with  her  money;  the  daughter  with  her  thoughts; 
the  glance  of  each,  shining  in  the  gloom  of  the  feebly 
lighted  room.  Rob  slept  and  snored.  The  disregarded 
parrot  only  was  in  action.  It  twisted  and  pulled  at  the 
wires  of  its  cage,  with  it*  crooked  beak,  and  crawled  up 
to  the  dome,  and  along  its  roof  like  a  fly,  and  down  again 
head-foremost,  and  shook,  aud  bit,  and  rattled  at  every 
Blender  bar,  as  if  it  knew  its  Master's  danger,  and  was 
wild  to  force  a  passage  out,  and  fly  away  to  warn  hiia 
if  it 


140  DCMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER   LIII 


MORE   INTELLIOENCR 


'i'HERE  were  two  of  the  traitor's  own  blood  —  his  re- 
Dounced  brother  and  sister  —  on  whom  the  weight  of  his 
guilt  rested  almost  more  heavily,  at  this  time,  than  on 
the  man  whom  he  had  so  deeply  injured.  Prying  and 
tormenting  as  the  world  was,  it  did  Mr.  Dombey  the  ser- 
vice of  nerving  him  to  pursuit  and  revenge.  It  roused 
his  passion,  stung  his  pride,  twisted  tiie  one  idea  of  his 
life  into  a  new  shape,  and  made  some  gratification  of  his 
wrath,  the  object  into  which  his  whole  intellectual  exist- 
ence resolved  itself.  All  the  stubbornness  and  iinplaca- 
biUty  of  his  nature,  all  its  hard  impenetrable  quality,  all 
its  gloom  and  raoroseness,  all  its  exaggerated  sense  of 
personal  impoi'tance,  all  its  jealous  disposition  to  resent 
the  least  flaw  in  the  ample  recognition  of  his  importance, 
by  others,  set  this  way  like  many  streams  united  into 
one,  and  bore  him  on  upon  their  tide.  The  most  im- 
petuously passionate  and  violently  impulsive  of  mankind 
would  have  been  a  milder  enemy  to  encounter  than  the 
BuUen  Mr.  Dombey  wrought  to  this.  A  wild  beast 
would  have  been  easier  turned  or  soothed  than  the  gmve 
gentleman  without  a  wrinkle  in  his  starched  cravat. 

But  the  very  intensity  of  his  purpose  became  almost  a 
substitute  for  action  in  it.  While  he  was  yet  uninformed 
of  the  traitor's  retreat,  it  served  to  divert  his  mind  from 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  141 

his  own  calamity,  and  to  entertain  it  with  another  pros- 
pect. The  brother  and  sister  of  his  false  favorite  had  no 
Buch  relief;  everything  in  their  history,  past  and  pres- 
ent, gave  his  delinquency  a  more  afflicting  meaning  to 
them. 

The  sister  may  have  i^ometiraes  sadly  thought  that  if 
Bhe  had  remained  with  him  the  companion  and  friend 
she  had  been  once,  he  might  have  escaped  the  crime  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  If  she  ever  thought  so,  it  was  still 
without  regret  for  what  she  had  done,  without  the  least 
doubt  of  her  duty,  without  any  pricing  or  enhancing  of 
her  self-devotion.  But  when  this  possibility  presented  it- 
self to  the  erring  and  repentant  brother,  as  it  sometimes 
did,  it  smote  upon  his  heart  with  such  a  keen,  reproachful 
touch  as  he  could  hardly  bear.  No  idea  of  retort  upon 
his  cruel  brother  came  into  his  mind.  New  accusation 
of  himself,  fresh  inward  lamentings  over  his  own  un- 
worthiness,  and  the  ruin  in  which  it  was  at  once  his  con- 
solation and  his  self-reproach  that  he  did  not  stand  alone, 
were  the  sole  kind  of  reflections  to  which  the  discovery 
gave  rise  in  him. 

It  was  on  the  very  same  day  whose  evening  set.  upon 
the  last  chapter,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey's  world  was 
busiest  with  the  elopement  of  his  wife,  that  the  window 
of  the  room  in  wliich  the  brother  and  sister  sat  at  their 
early  breakfast,  was  darkened  by  the  unexpected  shad- 
ow of  a  man  coming  to  the  little  porch:  which  mjji  was 
Perch  the  messenger. 

"I've  stepped  over  from  Balls  Pond  at  a  early  hour," 
said  Mr.  Perch,  confidentially  looking  in  at  the  room- 
door,  and  stopping  on  the  mat  to  wipe  his  shoes  all 
round,  which  had  no  mud  upon  them,  "  agreeable  to  my 
iihjtructions  last  night.     They  was,  to  be  sure  and  bring 


U2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

a  note  ic  you,  Mr.  Carker,  before  you  went  cut  in  "the 
niorning.  I  should  have  been  here  a  good  hour  and  a 
half  ago,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  meekly,  "but  ibr  the  state  of 
health  of  Mrs.  P.,  who  I  thought  I  should  have  lost  in 
the  night,  I  do  assure  you,  five  distinct  times." 

"  Is  your  wife  so  ill  ?  "  asked  Harriet. 

"  Why  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  first  turning  round 
tc  shut  tiie  door  carefully,  "  she  takes  what  has  happened 
in  our  House  so  much  to  heart,  miss.  Her  nerves  is  so 
very  delicate  you  see,  and  soon  unstrung.  Not  but  what 
the  strongest  nerves  had  good  need  to  be  shook,  I'm 
Burc.     You  feel  it  very  much  yourself,  no  doubts." 

Harriet  repressed  a  sigh,  and  glanced  at  her  brother. 

"  I'm  sure  I  feel  it  myself,  in  my  humble  way,"  Mr. 
Perch  went  on  to  say,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  "  in  a 
manner  I  couldn't  have  beheved  if  I  hadn't  been  called 
upon  to  undergo.  It  has  almost  the  effect  of  drink  upon 
me.  I  literally  feels  every  morning  as  if  I  had  been 
taking  more  than  was  good  for  me  overnight." 

Mr.  Perch's  appearance  corroborated  this  recital  of 
his  symptoms.  There  was  an  air  of  feverish  lassitude 
about  it,  that  seemed  referable  to  drams ;  and  which  in 
fact,  might  no  doubt  have  been  traced  to  those  numerous 
discoveries  of  himself  in  the  bars  of  public-liouses,  being 
treated  and  questioned,  which  he  was  in  the  daily  habit 
of  making. 

"  Therefore  I  can  judge,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  shaking  his 
head  again,  and  speaking  in  a  silvery  murmur,  "  of  the 
feelings  of  such  as  is  at  all  peculiarly  sitiwated  ii  this 
most  painful  rewelation." 

Here  Mr.  Perch  waited  to  be  confided  in  ;  and  receiv- 
ing no  confidence,  coughed  behind  his  hand.  This  lead- 
mg  to   nothmg,   he  coughed  behind   his  hat ;  and    that 


UOMBEY  AND  SON.  14S 

leading  to  nothing,  he  put  his  hat  on  the  ground  and 
Bought  in  his  breast-pocket  for  the  letter. 

"  If  1  rightly  recollect,  there  was  no  ans\v«  r,"  said  Mr. 
Perch,  with  an  affable  smile ;  "  but  perhaps  you'll  be  so 
good  as  cajt  your  eye  over  it,  sir." 

John  Carker  broke  the  seal,  which  was  Mr.  Dpmbey's, 
and  possessing  himself  of  the  contents,  which  were  very 
brief,  replied,  "  No.     No  answer  is  expected." 

"  Then  I  shall  wish  you  good-morning,  miss,*"'  said 
Perch,  taking  a  step  toward  the  door,  "  and  hoping,  I'm 
sure,  that  you'll  not  permit  yourself  to  be  more  reduced 
in  mind  than  you  can  help,  by  the  late  ])ainfiil  rewela- 
tion.  The  Papers,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  taking  two  steps 
back  again,  and  comprehensively  addrcvssing  both  the 
brother  and  sister  in  a  whisper  of  increased  mystery,  "  ie 
more  eager  for  news  of  it  than  you'd  suppose  possibla 
One  of  the  Sunday  ones,  in  a  blue  cloak  and  a  wiiite  hat, 
that  had  previously  offered  fur  to  bribe  me  —  need  I  say 
with  what  success  ?  —  was  dodging  about  our  court  last 
night  as  late  as  twenty  minutes  after  eight  o'clock.  I  see 
him  myself,  with  his  eye  at  the  counting-house  key-hole, 
which  being  patent  is  impervious.  Another  one,"  said 
Mr.  Perch,  "  with  milintary  frogs,  is  in  the  parlor  of  the 
King's  Arms  all  the  blessed  day.  I  happened,  last 
week,  to  let  a  little  obserwation  fall  there,  and  next 
morning,  which  was  Sunday,  I  see  it  worked  up  in  print, 
iu  a  most  sui'prising  manner." 

Mr.  Peich  resorted  to  his  breast-pocket,  as  if  to  pro 
duce  the  paragraph,  but  receiving  no  encouragement, 
pulled  out  his  beaver-gloves,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  took 
bis  l5H>  3 ;  and  before  it  was  high  noon,  Mr.  Perch  had 
related  to  several  select  audiences  at  the  King's  Arras 
and  elsewluM-e,  how  Miss  Carker,  bursting  inU  teai-s,  had 


144  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

caught  him  by  both  hands,  and  said,  "  Oh !  dear,  deal 
Perch,  the  sight  of  you  is  all  the  comfort  I  have  left!" 
And  how  Mr.  John  Carker  had  said,  in  an  awful  voice, 
"  Perch,  I  disown  him.  Never  let  me  hear  hira  men* 
lioned  as  a  brolher  more  ! " 

"  Dear  John,"  said  Harriet,  when  they  were  left  alone, 
and  had  remained  silent  for  some  few  moments.  "  TheiB 
tire  bad  tidings  in  that  letter." 

"Yes.  But  nothing  unexpected,"  he  replied.  "I  saw 
the  writer  yesterday." 

«  The  writer  .?  " 

"  Mr.  Dombey.  He  passed  twice  through  the  count- 
ing-house while  I  was  there.  I  had  been  able  to  avoid 
him  before,  but  of  course  could  not'*hope  to  do  that  long. 
1  know  how  natural  it  was  that  he  should  regard  my 
presence  as  something  offensive;  I  felt  it  must  be  so, 
myself." 

"  He  did  not  say  bO  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  said  nothing :  but  I  saw  that  bis  glance 
rested  on  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  was  prepared  for  what 
would  happen  —  for  what  has  happened.  I  am  dis- 
missed ! " 

Siie  looked  as  little  shocked  and  as  hopeful  as  she 
could,  but  it  was  distressing  news,  for  many  reasons. 

" '  I  need  not  tell  you,'  "  said  John  Carker,  reading 
tUe  letter,  "'  why  your  name  would  henceforth  have  an 
unnatural  sound,  in  however  remote  a  connection  with 
n)ij)e,  or  why  the  daily  sight  of  any  one  who  bears  it, 
would  be  unendurable  to  me.  I  have  to  notifv  the  ces- 
sation of  all  engagements  between  us,  from  this  date,  and 
lo  request  that  no  renewal  of  any  communication  with 
me,  or  my  establishment,  be  ever  attempted  by  you.'  — 
Enclosed  is  an  equivalent  in  money  to  a  generously  long 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  145 

notice,  and  tt,is  is  my  discharge.  Heaven  knows,  Har- 
riet, it  is  a  lenient  and  considerate  one,  when  we  remem- 
ber all ! " 

"  If  it  be  lenient  and  considerate  to  punish  you  at  all, 
John,  for  the  misdeed  of  another,"  she  replied  gently 
"yes." 

"  We  have  been  an  ill-omened  race  to  him,"  said  John 
Carker.  "  He  has  reason  to  shrink  from  the  sound  of 
our  name,  and  to  think  that  there  is  something  cursed 
and  wicked  in  our  blood.  I  should  almost  think  it  too, 
Harriet,  but  for  you." 

"  Brother,  don't  speak  like  this.  If  you  have  any 
special  reason,  as  you  say  you  have,  and  think  you  have 
—  though  I  say.  No  !  —  to  love  me,  spare  me  the  hear- 
ing of  such  wild  mad  words ! " 

He  covered  his  face  with  both  his  hands ;  but  sooc 
permitted  her,  coming  near  him,  to  take  one  in  h«r 
own. 

'*  After  so  many  years,  this  parting  is  a  melancholy 
thing,  I  know,"  said  his  sister,  "and  the  cause  of  it  is 
dreadful  to  us  both.  We  have  to  live,  too,  and  must 
look  about  us  for  the  means.  Well,  well  !  We  can 
do  so,  undismayed.  It  is  our  pride,  not  our  trouble,  to 
Btrive,  John,  and  to  strive  together," 

A  smile  played  on  her  lips,  as  she  kissed  his  cheeky 
Itnd  entreated  him  to  be  of  good  cheer. 

"  Oh,  dearest  sister !  Tied,  of  your  own  noble  will, 
to  a  ruined  man  !  whose  reputation  is  blighted ;  who  has 
no  friend  himself,  and  has  driven  every  friend  of  yours 
ftway ! " 

"John  ! "  she  laid  her  hand  hastily  jpon  his  lips,  "for 
my  sake  !  In  remembrance  of  our  long  companionship  I  " 
He   was  silent.     "  Now  let  me  tell  you,  dear,"  quietlj 

VOL.   IV.  10 


U6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

lilting  by  his  side,  "  I  have,  as  you  have^  expected  this  \ 
and  when  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  and  .'earing  that  it 
would  happen,  and  preparing  myself  for  it,  as  well  as  1 
could,  I  have  resolved  to  tell  you,  if  it  should  be  so,  that 
I  have  kept  a  secret  from  you,  and  that  we  have  a 
friend." 

"  What's  our  friend's  name,  Harriet  ?  "  he  answered 
with  a  sorrowful  smile. 

"  Indeed  I  don't  know,  but  he  onco  made  a  very 
earnest  protestation  to  me  of  his  friendship  and  his 
wish  to  serve  us  :  and  to  this  day  I  believe  him." 

"  Harriet !  "  exclaimed  her  wondering  brother,  "  where 
does  this  friend  live  ?  " 

"  Neither  do  I  know  that,"  she  returned.  "  But  he 
knows  us  both,  and  our  history  —  all  our  little  history, 
John.  That  is  the  reason  why,  at  his  own  suggestion,  I 
have  kept  the  secret  of  his  coming  here,  from  you,  lest 
his  acquaintance  with  it  should  distress  you." 

"  Here  !     Has  he  been  here,  Harriet  ?  " 

**  Here,  in  this  room.     Once." 

"  What  kind  of  man  ?  " 

"  Not  young.  '  Gray-headed,'  as  he  said,  '  and  fast 
growing  grayer.'  But  generous,  and  frank,  and  good, 
I  am  sure." 

"  And  only  seen  once,  Harriet  ?  " 

**  In  this  room  only  once,"  said  his  sister,  with  the 
ilightsst  and  most  transient  glow  upon  her  cheek  ;  "  but 
when  here,  he  entreated  me  to  suffer  him  to  see  me  once 
A  week  as  he  passed  by  in  token  of  our  being  well,  and 
continuing  to  need  nothing  at  his  hands.  For  I  told  him, 
when  he  proffered  us  any  service  he  could  render  — • 
which  was  the  object  of  his  visit  —  that  we  needed 
nothing." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  141 

**  And  once  a  week  "  — 

^  Once  every  week  since  then,  and  always  o;  the  sarao 
iay,  and  at  the  same  hour,  he  has  gone  past ;  always  on 
foot ;  always  going  in  the  same  direction  —  towards  Lon« 
don  ;  and  never  pausing  longer  than  to  bow  to  me,  and 
wave  his  hand  cheeifiilly,  as  a  kind  guardian  might.  Ho 
made  that  promise  when  he  proposed  these  curious  inter- 
riews,  and  has  kept  it  so  faithfully  and  pleasantly,  that 
if  I  ever  felt  any  trifling  uneasiness  about  them  in  the 
beginning  (which  I  don't  tliink  I  did,  John ;  his  manner 
was  so  plain  and  true)  it  very  soon  vanished,  and  left  me 
quite  glad  when  the  day  was  coming.  Last  Monday  — 
the  first  since  this  terrible  event  —  he  did  not  go  by ; 
and  I  have  wondered  whether  his  absence  can  have  been 
in  any  way  connected  with  what  has  happened." 

"  How  ?  "  inquired  her  brother. 

"  I  don't  know  how.  I  have  only  speculated  on  the 
coincidence;  I  have  not  tried  to  account  for  it.  I  feel 
sure  he  will  return.  When  he  does,  dear  John,  let  me 
tell  hiin  that  I  have  at  last  spoken  to  you,  and  let  me 
bring  you  together.  He  will  certainly  help  us  to  a 
new  livelihood.  His  entreaty  was  that  he  might  do 
gomcthing  to  smooth  my  life  and  yours  ;  and  I  gare 
him  my  promise  that  if  we  ever  wanted  a  friend,  I 
would  remember  him.  Then,  his  name  was  to  be  no 
secret." 

"  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  who  had  listened  with 
close  attention,  "  describe  this  gentleman  to  me.  I 
iurely  ought  to  know  one  who  knows  me  so  well." 

His  sister  painted,  as  vividly  as  she  could,  the  features, 
8tatui-e,  and  dress  of  her  visitor  ;  but  Joiin  Carker,  either 
from  having  no  knowledge  of  the  original,  or  from  some 
&ult  in  her  description,  or  from  some  abstraction  of  h\a 


148  DOMBET  AND  SOX. 

thoughts  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  pondering,  could  not 
recognize  the  portrait  she  presented  to  him. 

However,  it  was  agreed  between  them  that  he  should 
see  the  original  when  he  next  appeared.  This  concluded 
the  sister  applied  herself,  with  a  less  anxious  breast,  to 
her  domestic  occupations  ;  and  the  gray-haired  man, 
late  Junior  of  Dombey's,  devoted  the  first  day  cf  hig 
unwonted  liberty  to  working  in  the  garden.    , 

It  was  quite  late  at  night,  and  the  brother  was  reading 
aloud  while  the  sister  plied  her  needle,  when  they  were 
interrupted  by  a  knocking  at  the  door.  In  the  atmos- 
phere of  vague  anxiety  and  dread  that  lowered  about 
them  in  connection  with  their  fugitive  brother,  this 
sound,  unusual  there,  became  almost  alarming.  The 
brother  going  to  the  door,  the  sister  sat  and  listened 
timidly.  Some  one  spoke  to  him,  and  he  replied,  and 
seemed  surprised ;  and  after  a  few  words,  the  two  ap- 
proached together. 

"  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  lighting  in  their  late 
visitor,  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  "  Mr.  ISIoi-fin  ^ 
the  gentleman  so  long  in  Dombey's  houpe  \fith  James." 

Hi3  sister  started  back,  as  if  a  ghost  had  entered.  In 
the  door-way  stood  the  unknown  friend,  with  the  dark 
hair  sprinkled  with  gray,  the  ruddy  face,  the  broad  clear 
brow,  and  hazel  eyes  whose  secret  she  had  kept  so  long  I 

"  John  !  "  she  said,  half  breathless.  "  It  is  the  gentle- 
man I  told  you  of,  to-day !  " 

"The  gentleman.  Miss  Harriet,"  said  the  visitor,  com- 
ing in — for  he  had  stopped  a  moment  in  the  door -way, 
"  is  greatly  relieved  to  hear  you  say  that :  he  has  been 
devising  ways  and  means,  atl  the  way  here,  of  explain- 
ing hirasL.f,  and  has  been  satisfied  with  none.  Mr.  John, 
I  am  not  quite  a  stmnger  here.     You  were  stricken  with 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  149 

Rsfonishment  when  you  saw  me  at  your  door  just  now. 
I  observe  you  are  more  astonished  at  present.     "Well 
That's  reasonable  enough  under  existing  circurastancea 
If  we  were  not  such  creatures  of  habit  as  we  are,  we 
ghouldn't  have  reason  to  be  astonished  half  so  often." 

By  this  time,  he  had  greeted  Harriet  with  that  agree- 
able mingling  of  cordiality  and  respect  which  she  rec« 
ollected  so  well;  and  had  sat  down  near  her,  pulled 
off  his  gloves,  and  thrown  them  into  his  hat  upon  the 
table. 

"  There's  nothing  astonishing,"  he  said,  "  in  my  hav- 
ing conceived  a  desire  to  see  your  sister,  Mr.  John,  or  in 
my  having  gratified  it  in  my  own  way.  As  to  the  regu- 
larity of  my  visits  since  (which  she  may  have  mentioned 
to  you),  there  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  that.  They 
soon  grew  into  a  habit ;  and  we  are  creatures  of  habit 
—  creatures  of  habit !  " 

Putting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  he  looked  at  the  bi-other  and  sister  as  if  it  were 
interesting  to  him  to  see  them  together ;  and  went  on  to 
say,  with  a  kind  of  irritable  thoughtfulness :  "  It's  this 
same  habit  that  confirms  some  of  u.*,  who  are  capable  of 
better  things,  in  Lucifer's  own  pride  and  stubbornness  — 
that  confirms  and  deepens  others  of  us  in  villany  —  more 
of  us  in  indifference  —  that  hardens  us  from  day  to  day, 
according  to  the  temper  of  our  clay,  like  images,  and 
lea^-es  us  as  susceptible  as  images  to  new  impressions 
and  convictions.  You  shall  judge  of  its  influence  on  me, 
John.  For  more  yeai-s  than  I  need  name,  I  had  my 
Bmall,  an  exactly  defined  share,  in  the  management  of 
Dom':)ey's  house,  and  saw  your  brother  ywho  has  proved 
himself  a  scoundrel !  Your  sister  will  forgive  my  being 
abligcd  to  mention  it)  extending  and  .ex*ending  his  influ 


150  DOMBEl   AND  SON. 

ence,  until  the  buaiuess  and  its  owner  were  his  football 
and  saw  you  toiling  at  your  obscure  desk  every  day ;  and 
was  quite  content  to  be  iis  little  troubled  as  1  might  be, 
out  of  my  own  strip  of  duty,  and  to  let  everything  alK)ut 
me  go  on,  day  by  day,  unquestioned,  like  a  great  machine 

—  that  was  its  luibit  and  mine  —  and  to  take  it  all  for 
granted,  and  consider  it  all  right.  My  Wednesday  nights 
came  regularly  round,  our  quartette  parties  came  regu- 
larly off,  my  violoncello  was  in  good  tune,  and  there  waa 
nothing  wrong  in  my  world  —  or,  if  anything,  not  much 

—  or  little  or  much,  it  was  no  affair  of  mine." 

"  I  can  answer  for  your  being  more  respected  and  be- 
loved during  all  that  time  than  anybody  in  the  house, 
sir,"  said  John  Carker. 

"  Pooh  !  Good-natured  and  easy  enough,  I  dare  say," 
returned  the  other,  "  a  habit  I  had.  It  suited  the  man- 
ager :  it  suited  the  man  he  managed :  it  suited  me  best 
of  all.  I  did  what  was  allotted  to  me  to  do,  made  no 
court  to  either  of  them,  and  was  glad  to  occupy  a  station 
in  which  none  was  required.  So  I  should  have  gone  on 
till  now,  but  that  my  room  had  a  thin  wall.  You  can 
tell  your  sister  that  it  was  divided  from  the  manager's 
room  by  a  wainscot  partition." 

"  They  were  adjoining  rooms ;  had  been  one,  perhaps, 
originally ;  and  were  separated,  as  Mr.  Morfin  says," 
said  her  brother,  looking  back  to  him  for  the  resumption 
of  his  explanation. 

"  I  have  whistled,  hummed  tunes,  gone  accurately 
through  the  whole  of  Beethoven's  Sonata  in  B,  to  let 
him  know  tliat  I  was  within  hearing,"  said  Mr.  Morfin  : 
"  but  he  never  heeded  me.  It  happened  seldom  enough 
that  I  was  within  hearing  of  anything  of  a  private  nature, 
eertainly.     But  when  I  was,  and  couldn't  otherwise  avoid 


DOMBEY  AND  SOm.  151 

knowi.ig  something  of  it,  I  walked  out.  I  walked  out 
once,  John,  during  a  conversation  between  two  brother, 
to  which,  in  the  beginning,  young  Walter  Gay  was  a 
party.  But  I  overheard  some  of  it  before  I  left  the 
room.  You  remember  it  sufficiently,  perhaps,  to  tell 
your  sister  what  its  nature  was  ?  " 

"  It  referred,  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  to  tlie  past,  and  to  our  relative  positions  in  the 
house." 

"  Its  matter  was  not  new  to  me,  but  was  presented  in 
a  new  aspect.  It  shook  me  in  my  habit  —  the  habit  of 
nine  tenths  of  the  woi'ld  —  of  believing  that  all  was  right 
about  me,  because  I  was  used  to  it,"  said  their  visitor; 
"  and  induced  me  to  recall  the  history  of  tiie  two  broth- 
ers, and  to  ponder  on  it.  I  think  it  was  almost  the 
first  time  in  my  life  when  I  fell  into  this  train  of  reflec- 
tion —  how  will  many  things  that  are  familiar,  and  quite 
matters  of  course  to  us  now,  look,  when  we  come  to  see 
them  from  that  new  and  distant  point  of  view  which  we 
must  all  take  up,  one  day  or  other  ?  I  was  something 
less  good-natured,  as  the  phrase  goes,  after  that  morning, 
less  easy  and  complacent  altogether." 

He  i<at  for  a  minute  or  so,  drumming  with  one  hand 
on  the  table ;  and  resumed  in  a  hurry,  as  if  he  were 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  his  confession. 

"  Before  I  knew  what  to  do,  or  whether  I  could  do 
fttiything,  there  was  a  second  conversation  between  the 
same  two  bioihers,  in  which  their  sister  was  mentioned. 
I  had  no  scruples  of  conscience  in  suffering  all  the  waifs 
and  strays  of  tliat  conversation  to  float  to  me  as  frtely 
as  they  would.  I  considered  them  mine  by  right.  After 
that,  I  came  here  to  see  the  sister  for  myself.  The  firs/ 
time  i  stopped  at  the  garden-gate,  I  made  a  pretext  of 


152  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Inquiring  into  the  character  oi  a  poor  neighbor ;  but  1 
wandered  out  of  tiiat  tract,  and  I  mink  Miss  Harriet 
mistrusted  me.  Tlie  second  time  I  asked  leave  to  come 
in ;  came  in  ;  and  said  what  I  wished  to  say.  Your 
Bister  showed  me  reasons  which  I  dared  not  dispute,  for 
receiving  no  assistance  from  me  then  ;  but  I  established 
a  means  of  communication  between  us,  which  remained 
unbroken  until  within  these  few  days,  when  1  was  pre- 
vented, by  important  matters  that  have  lately  devolved 
upon  me,  from  maintaining  them." 

"  How  little  I  have  suspected  this,"  said  John  Carker 
"  when  I  have  seen  you  every  day,  sir !  If  Harriet  could 
Lave  guessed  your  name  "  — 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  John,"  interposed  the 
visitor,  "  I  kept  it  to  myself  for  two  reasons.  I  don't 
know  that  the  first  might  have  been  binding  alone ;  but 
one  has  no  business  to  take  credit  for  good  intentions, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind,  at  all  events,  not  to  disclose 
myself  until  I  should  be  able  to  do  you  some  real  service 
or  other.  My  second  reason  was,  that  I  always  hoped 
there  might  be  some  lingering  possibility  of  your  brotlier'a 
relenting  towards  you  both  ;  and  in  that  case,  I  felt  that 
where  there  was  the  chance  of  a  man  of  his  suspicious, 
watchful  character  discovering  that  you  had  been  secretly 
befriended  by  me,  there  was  the  chance  of  a  new  and 
fatal  cause  of  division.  I  resolved,  to  be  sure,  at  the 
risk  of  turning  his  displeasure  against  myself —  which 
would  have  been  no  matter  —  tc  watch  ray  opportunity 
of  serving  you  with  the  head  of  the  house ;  but  the  dis- 
tractions of  death,  courtship,  marriage,  and  domestic  un- 
happiness,  have  left  us  no  head  but  your  brother  for  this 
long,  long  time.  And  it  would  have  been  better  for  us," 
said  tlie  visitor,  dropping  his  voice,  "  to  have  been  a  life 
Ihss  trunk." 


DOIVTBEY  AND   SON.  153 

He  seemed  conscious  that  these  latter  words  hnd  es- 
caped him  against  his  will,  and,  stretching  out  a  hand 
to  the  brother  and  a  hand  to  the  sister,  continued : 

"  All  I  could  desire  to  say,  and  more,  I  have  now  said 
All  I  mean  goes  beyond  words,  as  I  hope  yc  u  under 
Btand  and  believe.  The  time  has  come,  John  —  thougli 
most  unfortunately  and  unhappily  come  —  when  I  may 
help  you  without  interfering  with  that  redeeming  stnig- 
gle,  which  has  lasted  through  so  many  years  ;  since  yoa 
were  discharged  from  it  to-day  by  no  act  of  your  own. 
It  is  late ;  I  need  say  no  more  to-night.  You  will  guard 
the  treasure  you  have  here,  without  advice  or  reminder 
from  me." 

With  these  words  he  rose  to  go. 

"  But  go  you  first,  John,"  he  said  good-humoredly, 
•*  with  a  light,  without  saying  what  you  want  to  say, 
whatever  that  may  be  ; "  John  Carker's  heart  was  full, 
and  he  would  have  relieved  it  in  speech,  if  he  could ; 
"and  let  me  have  a  word  with  your  sister.  "We  have 
talked  alone  before,  and  in  this  room  too ;  though  it 
looks  more  natural  with  you  here." 

Following  him  out  with  his  eyes,  he  turned  kindly  to 
Harriet,  and  said  in  a  lower  voice,  and  with  an  altered 
and  graver  manner : 

"  You  wish  to  ask  me  something  of  the  man  whose 
Bister  it  is  your  misfortune  to  be." 

"I  dread  to  ask,"  said  Harriet. 

"  You  have  looked  so  earnestly  at  me  more  than 
cnce,"  rejoined  the  visitor,  "  that  I  think  I  can  divine 
your  question.     Has  he  taken  money?     Is  it  that?" 

«  Yes." 

"  He  has  not," 

"  I  thank  Heaven  1  "  said  Harriet  «  For  the  sake 
of  John," 


154  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"That  (le  has  abused  his  trust  in  many  ways,"  said 
Mr.  Morfin ;  "  that  he  has  oftener  dealt  and  speculated 
to  advantage  for  himself  than  for  the  house  he  repre- 
sented ;  that  he  has  led  the  house  on,  to  prodigious  ven- 
tures, often  resulting  in  enormous  losses  ;  that  he  has 
always  pampered  the  vanity  and  ambition  of  his  em- 
ployer, when  it  was  his  duty  to  have  held  them  in  check, 
and  shown,  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  do,  to  what  they 
tended  here  or  there  ;  will  not,  perhaps,  surprise  you 
now.  Undertakings  have  been  entered  on,  to  swell  the 
reputation  of  the  house  for  vast  resources,  and  to  exhibit 
it  in  magnificent  contrast  to  other  merchants'  houses,  of 
which  it  requires  a  steady  head  to  contemplate  the  pos- 
sibly —  a  few  disastrous  changes  of  affairs  might  render 
them  the  probably  —  ruinous  consequences.  In  the 
midst  of  the  many  transactions  of  the  house,  in  most 
parts  of  the  world :  a  great  labyrinth  of  which  only  he 
has  held  the  clew :  he  has  had  the  opportunity,  and  he 
seems  to  have  used  it,  of  keeping  the  various  results 
afloat,  when  ascertained,  and  substituting  estimates  and 
generalities  for  facts.  But  latterly  —  you  follow  me, 
Miss  Harriet  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  perfectly,"  she  answered,  with  her  fright- 
ened face  fixed  on  his.  "  Pray  tell  me  all  the  worst  at 
once." 

"  Latterly,  he  appears  to  have  devoted  the  greatest 
pains  to  making  these  results  so  plain  and  clear,  that 
reference  to  the  private  books  enables  one  to  grasp  them, 
numerous  and  varying  as  they  are,  with  extraordinary 
ease.  As  if  he  had  resolved  to  show  his  employer  at 
one  broad  view  what  has  been  brought  upon  him  by 
ministration  to  his  ruling  passion  !  that  it  has  been  bia 
constant  practice  to  minister  to  that  passion  basely    and 


DOMIJEY  AND  SON.  15i 

to  flatter  it  corruptly,  is  indubitable.  In  that,  his  urimi" 
oality,  as  it  is  connected  with  the  affairs  of  the  houM^ 
chiefly  consists." 

**  One  other  word  before  you  leave  me,  dear  sir,"  paid 
Harriet.     "  Theie  is  no  danger  in  all  this ?  " 

"  How  danger  ?  "  he  returned,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

'*  To  the  credit  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  help  answering  you  plainly,  and  trusting 
you  completely,"  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a  moment's 
survey  of  her  face.. 

"  You  may.     Indeed  you  may  !  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  may.  Danger  to  the  house's  credit  ? 
No  ;  none.  There  may  be  dilRculty,  greater  or  less  dif- 
ficulty, but  no  danger,  unless  —  unless,  indeed  —  the 
head  of  the  house,  unable  to  bring  his  mind  to  the  re- 
duction of  its  enterprises,  and  positively  refusing  to 
believe  that  it  is,  or  can  be,  in  any  position  but  the 
position  in  which  he  has' always  represented  it  to  him- 
self, should  urge  it  beyond  its  strength.  Then  it  would 
totter." 

"  But  there  is  no  apprehension  of  that  ?  "  said  Harriet 

"  There  shall  be  no  half-confidence,"  he  replied,  shak- 
ing her  hand,  "  between  us.  Mr.  Dombey  is  unapproach- 
able by  any  one,  and  his  state  of  mind  is  haughty,  rash, 
unreasonable,  and  ungovernable,  now.  But  he  is  dis- 
tui-bed  and  agitated  now  beyond  all  common  bounds,  and 
it  may  pass.  You  now  know  all,  both  worst  and  beat. 
No  more  to-night,  and  good-night !  " 

With  that  he  kissed  her  hand,  and,  passing  out  at  the 
door  where  her  brother  stood  awaiting  his  coming,  put 
him  cheerfully  aside  when  he  essayed  to  speak  ;  told  hira 
that,  as  they  would  see  each  other  soon  and  often,  he 
might  speak  at  another  time,  if  he  would,  but  there  wa« 


156  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

no  leisure  for  it  then ;  and  went  away  at  a  round  pacts 
in  order  that  no  word  of  gratitude  might  follow  him. 

The  hrother  and  sister  sat  conversing  by  the  fireside, 
nntil  it  was  almost  day ;  made  sleepless  by  this  glimpse 
of  the  new  world  that  opened  before  them,  and  feeling 
like  two  people  shipwrecked  long  ago,  upon  a  solitary 
ooast,  to  whom  a  ship  had  come  at  last,  when  they  were 
old  in  resignation,  and  had  lost  all  thought  of  any  other 
home.  But  another  and  different  kind  of  disquietude 
kept  them  waking  too.  The  darkness  out  of  which  this 
tight  had  broken  on  them  gathered  around  ;  and  the 
shadow  of  their  guilty  brother  was  in  the  house  where 
^is  foot  had  never  trod. 

Nor  was  it  to  be  driven  out,  nor  did  it  fade  before  the 
i«un.  Next  morning  it  was  there ;  at  noon ;  at  night. 
Darkest  and  most  distinct  at  night,  as  is  now  to  be 
told. 

John  Carker  had  gone  out,-  in  pursuance  of  a  letter 
of  appointment  from  their  friend,  and  Harriet  was  left  in 
the  house  alone.  She  had  been  alone  some  hours.  A 
dull,  grave  evening,  and  a  deepening  twilight,  were  not 
favorable  to  the  removal  of  the  oppression  on  her  spirits. 
The  idea  of  this  brother,  long  unseen  and  unknown,  flitted 
about  her  in  frightful  shapes.  He  was  dead,  dying,  call- 
ing to  her,  staring  at  her,  frowning  on  her.  The  pictures 
in  her  mind  were  so  obtrusive  and  exact  that,  as  the  twi- 
light deepened,  she  dreaded  to  raise  her  head  and  look 
at  the  dark  comers  of  the  room,  lest  his  wraith,  the  oflP- 
gpiing  of  her  excited  imagination,  should  be  waiting 
there,  to  startle  her.  Once  she  had  such  a  fancy  of  his 
being  in  the  next  room,  hiding  —  though  she  knew  quite 
well  what  a  distempered  fancy  it  was,  and  had  no  belief 
»n  it  —  thai  she  forced  herself  to  go  there,  for  her  owi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  157 

conviction.  But  in  vain.  The  room  resumed  its  shadowy 
terrors  the  moment  she  left  it;  and  she  had  no  more 
power  to  divest  herself  of  these  vague  impressions  of 
dread,  than  if  they  had  been  stone-giants,  rooted  in  the 
solid  earth. 

It  was  almost  dai'k,  and  she  was  sitting  near  the  win- 
dow, with  her  head  upon  her  hand,  looking  down,  when, 
sensible  of  a  sudden  increase  in  the  gloom  of  the  apart- 
ment, she  raised  her  eyes  and  uttered  an  involuntary 
cry.  Close  to  the  glass,  a  pale  scared  face  gazed  in ; 
vacantly,  for  an  instant,  as  searching  for  an  object ;  then 
the  eyes  rested  on  herself,  and  lighted  up. 

"  Let  me  in  !  Let  me  in  !  I  want  to  speak  to  you  I " 
and  the  hand  rattled  on  the  glass. 

She  recognized  immediately  the  woman  with  the  long 
dark  dair,  to  whom  she  had  given  warmth,  food,  and 
shelter,  one  wet  night.  Naturally  afraid  of  her,  remem- 
bering her  violent  behavior,  Harriet,  retreating  a  little 
from  the  window,  stood  undecided  and  alarmed. 

"  Let  me  in  !  Let  me  speak  to  you  !  I  am  thankful 
—  quiet  —  humble  —  anything  you  like.  But  let  me 
speak  to  you." 

The  vehement  manner  of  the  entreaty,  the  earnest 
expression  of  the  face,  the  trembling  of  the  two  hands 
that  were  raised  imploringly,  a  certain  dread  and  terror 
in  the  voice  akin  to  her  own  condition  at  the  moment, 
prevailed  with  Harriet.  She  hastened  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

"May  I  come  in,  or  shall  I  speak  here?"  said  the 
woman,  catching  at  her  hand. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want  ?  What  is  it  that  you  kave 
to  say  ?  " 

*  Not  much,  but  let  me  say  it  out,  or  I  shall  never  say 


158  POMBEY   AND   SON. 

it.  I  am  tempted  now  to  go  aAvay.  There  seem  to  he 
bands  dragging  me  from  the  door.  Let  me  come  in,  if 
you  can  trust  me  for  this  once ! " 

Her  energy  again  prevailed,  and  they  passed  into  the 
firelight  of  the  little  kitchen,  where  she  had  before  sat, 
and  ate,  and  dried  her  clothes. 

"  Sit  there,"  said  Alice,  kneeling  down  beside  her, 
"  and  look  at  me.     You  remember  me  ?  " 

«I  do." 

"You  remember  what  I  told  you  I  had  been,  and 
Inhere  I  came  from,  ragged  and  lame,  with  the  fierce 
wind  and  weather  beating  on  my  head  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  You  know  how  I  came  back  that  night,  and  threw 
your  money  in  the  dirt,  and  cursed  you  and  your  race 
Now,  see  me  here,  upon  my  knees.  Am  I  less  earnest 
now,  than  I  was  then  ? " 

"  If  what  you  ask,"  said  Harriet,  gently,  "  is  forgive- 
ness "  — 

"  But  it's  not ! "  returned  the  other,  with  a  proud, 
fierce  look,  "  What  I  ask  is  to  be  believed.  Now  you 
shall  judge  if  I  am  worthy  of  belief,  both  as  I  was,  and 
as  I  am." 

Still  upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  eyes  upon  the  fire. 
Bnd  the  fire  shining  on  her  ruined  beauty  and  her  wild 
black  hair,  one  long  tress  of  which  she  pulled  over  hei 
phoulder,  and  wound  about  her  hand,  and  thoughtfully 
bit  and  tore  while  speaking,  she  went  on : 

"  When  I  was  young  and  pretty,  and  this,"  plucking 
contemptuously  at  the  hair  she  held,  "  was  only  handled 
delicately,  and  couldn't  be  admired  enough,  my  mother, 
who  had  not  been  very  mindful  of  me  as  a  child,  found 
lut  my  merits,  and  was  fond  of  me,  and  proud  of  me 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  159 

Bhe  was  covetous  and  poor,  and  thought  to  make  a  sort 
of  property  of  me.  No  great  lady  ever  thought  that  of 
a  daughter  yet,  I'm  sure,  or  acted  as  if  she  did  —  it's 
never  done,  we  all  know  —  and  that  shows  that  the  only 
instances  of  mothers  bringing  up  their  daughters  wrong 
and  evil  coming  of  it,  are  among  such  miserable  folks  aa 

l-ooking  at  the  fire,  as  if  she  were  forgetful,  for  the 
moment,  of  having  any  auditor,  she  continued  in  a 
dreamy  way,  as  she  wound  the  long  tress  of  hair  iight 
rouml  and  round  her  hand. 

"  What  came  of  that,  I  needn't  say.  Wretched  mar- 
riages don't  come  of  such  things,  in  our  degree ;  only 
wretchedness  and  ruin.  Wretchedness  and  ruin  came 
on  me  —  came  on  me." 

Raising  her  eyes  swiftly  from  their  moody  gaze  upon 
the  fire,  to  Harriet's  face,  she  said  — 

"  I  am  wasting  time,  and  thf re  is  none  to  spare ;  yet 
if  I  hadn't  thought  of  all,  I  shouldn't  be  here  now. 
Wretchedness  and  ruin  came  on  me,  I  say.  I  was  made 
a  short-lived  toy,  and  flung  aside  more  cruelly  and  care- 
lessly than  even  such  things  are.  By  whose  hand  do 
you  think  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  Why  do  you  tremble  ? "  rejoined  Alice,  with  an 
eager  look.  "  His  usage  made  a  Devil  of  me.  I  ounk 
in  wretchedness  and  ruin,  lower  and  lower  yet.  I  was 
;oncerne(l  in  a  robbery  —  in  every  part  of  it  but  the 
^ins  —  and  was  found  out,  and  sent  to  be  tried,  without 
a  friend,  without  a  penny.  Though  I  was  but  n  girl,  1 
would  have  gone  to  Death,  sooner  than  ask  him  for  a 
word,  if  a  word  of  his  could  have  saved  me.  I  would ! 
To  any  death  that  could  have  been  invented.     But  my 


160  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

mother,  covetous  always,  sent  to  him  in  my  name,  told 
the  true  story  of  my  case,  and  humbly  prayed  and  peti- 
tioned for  a  small  last  gift  —  for  not  so  many  pounds  a- 
I  have  fingers  on  this  hand.  Who  was  it  do  you  think, 
who  snapped  his  fingers  at  me  in  my  misery,  lying,  as  he 
beheved,  at  his  feet,  and  left  me  without  even  this  poor 
sign  of  remembrance  ;  well  satisfied  that  I  should  be  sent 
abroad,  beyond  the  reaf'h  of  further  trouble  to  him,  and 
Bhould  die,  and  rot  there  ?  Who  was  this,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ? "  repeated  Harriet. 

"  Why  do  you  tremble  ?  "  said  Alice,  laying  her  hand 
opon  her  arm,  and  looking  in  her  face,  "  but  that  the 
Bnswer  is  on  your  lips  !     It  was  your  brother  James." 

Harriet  trembled  more  and  more,  but  did  not  avert 
her  eyes  from  the  eager  look  that  rested  on  them. 

"  When  I  knew  you  were  his  sister  —  which  was  on 
that  night  —  I  came  back,  weary  and  lame,  to  spurn 
your  gift.  I  felt  that  night  as  if  I  could  have  travelled, 
weary  and  lame,  over  the  whole  world,  to  stab  him,  if  1 
oould  have  found  him  in  a  lonely  place  with  no  one  near. 
Do  you  believe  that  I  was  earnest  in  all  that  ?  " 

"  I  do  !     Good  Heaven,  why  are  you  come  again  ?  " 

"  Since  then,"  said  Alice,  with  the  same  grasp  of  htr 
arm,  and  the  same  look  in  her  face,  "  I  have  seen  him  1 
I  have  followed  him  with  my  eyes,  in  the  broad  day. 
If  any  spark  of  my  resentment  slumbered  in  my  bosom, 
t  sprung  into  a  blaze  when  my  eyes  rested  on  Um. 
You  know  he  has  wronged  a  proud  man,  and  made  him 
hid  deadly  enemy.  What  if  I  had  given  information  of 
him  to  that  man  ?  " 

"  Information  !  "  repeated  Harriet. 

"What  if  I  had  found  out  one  who  knew  your  brother** 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  161 

fcecret :  who  knew  the  manner  of  his  flight ;  who  knew 
where  he  and  the  companion  of  his  flight  were  gone? 
What  if  I  had  made  him  utter  all  his  knowledge,  word 
by  word,  before  this  enemy,  concealed  to  hear  it  ?  What 
if  I  had  sat  by  at  the  time,  looking  into  this  enemy's 
face,  and  seeing  it  change  till  it  was  scarcely  human  ? 
What  if  I  had  seen  him  rush  away,  mad,  in  pursuit 
What  if  I  knew,  now,  that  he  was  on  his  road,  more 
fiend  than  man,  and  must,  in  so  many  hours,  come  up 
with  him  ?  " 

"  Remove  your  hand  !  "  said  Harriet,  recoiling.  "  GrO 
away  !     Your  touch  is  dreadful  to  me !  " 

''  1  havS  done  this,"  pursued  the  other,  with  her  eager 
look,  regardless  of  the  interruption.  "  Do  I  speak  and 
look  as  if  I  really  had  ?  Do  you  believe  what  I  am 
saying  ?  " 

"I  fear  I  must.     Let  my  arm  go!" 

"  Not  yet.  A  moment  more.  You  can  think  wha^ 
my  revengeful  purpose  must  have  been,  to  last  so  long, 
and  urge  me  to  do  this  ?  " 

"  Dreadful !  "  said  Harriet. 

"  Then  when  you  see  me  now,"  said  Alice,  hoarsely^ 
"here  again,  kneeling  quietly  on  the  ground,  with  my 
touch  upon  your  arm,  with  my  eyes  upon  your  face,  yoa 
may  believe  that  there  is  no  common  earnestness  in  what 
I  say,  and  that  no  common  struggle  has  been  battling  in 
my  bieast.  I  am  ashamed  to  speak  the  words,  but  I 
relent.  I  despise  myself;  I  have  fought  with  myself  all 
day,  and  all  last  night ;  but  I  relent  towards  him  without 
reason,  and  wish  to  repair  what  I  have  done,  if  it  is  pos- 
sible. I  wouldn't  have  them  come  together  while  his  pur 
•uer  is  so  blind,  and  headlong.  If  you  had  seen  him  aa 
be  went  out  last  night,  you  would  know  the  danger  better/ 

VOL.   IV.  11 


""  £>w  -firml  i 

Garret- 

iaresu   c    .^a muL  .neei  J  uiii^  "iifWi      m\  Jim  Siwfl. 

-  J    ce^R  :ir  mnr  mmt  -mimlL  ^vrtict.  'Mr  ^mai^  emr  gjfpD  IBi 

-  Tt';£T3    .SB.  JSOt..  'JlBr  OBHBj  iifclBfe  '■Ml    111    JULiMM}  m 

.m  s.  ntarr^^mBL.  Jam:,  'amt  iiaam/i  liaoK'iBiHusafcaBMkB 
msm  *  sa  wmmcoKtsL.  TT  li  ■■!  JiMitiii  iii  ■  tiii  imjI 
— L  stmam  jsr  ^r^ '. — coaiu  JHnrra^dHi.    'Si^^iiuB.  :ti.>  .^et 

anay   «rau^,  jQiteeb  .^  iiatft ''£':ikrB^  CB  dai 

'Jk  :BKee:  ma.  ^yt^    Jk  :maa»tii  om  ssd  Ta^ : 

Ijtfe:  :!)«£■:  iub^-daaBa^aiKrtiiBai^i.amt.    Auy 
.fiKSBu.    J^n}  3HM:  'oiHL  omkI.    Iksi  ;Jiit>  nfae 

stb     TTittget  ir   I  iifyi  ^Mfai  msa^  ohok  ■■ntiww"^" 


IMBBKa:  JHB  MK.  Mb 


SMK. 


ST.  Jamr  Aba  m  -niimi^: ;  fiit  '^ka^  m 

— «i dbiUdBiifl lUli nrcnRTmor.  n  riin'ui^a—ii.jii 

ioadiiKL,  synrilintr  aod  our:  .Hiijiyi^  Jmii  :&e 

riiiiiiii.iwi  ,  tMB,  uameik  aaan  jmwflii  waUk  am*  or  inno: 
gatistjK  'iteiK  df  aiE  <i,wtii  ,ij.mMUiiflni|g  dBEmn£  thiii-  si: 
sHumiiiMBBtHC  uTttti  die'  ixsmBinis^  j"»"'"»i  joir  ^life  dUBBfr- 

lauaio^am  m  mm  niiwum:  ic  ^aieii  jaagsa.  tr.  umm  "ttaefc 

OB  :&e  &G  &ur  jc"  :&•  Jo^e  ax.  iueeL  inu  ik  -S£.  mm 

iiisr.~  —"■    '  i  iTGujJBitfVr  Jhiffiqg  ao  jstga—fi  • 

tttu...  -tt-  '^iii  ;&  Adv  iscf  sane,  nii^miii  Mi 

At-  li—B  — Bg  i—iiiiJ  aafl 

Im^  isD  i£$«HKK  JTom  wadanu  <iiH>t;  sh3  aniiuBi.,  ^ 

^aMB^dgiJMnaEdgMiiiaBVaiwkflBBtiftwnitei 


Ifrl  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

o(  the  wall.  But  in  the  daytime,  when  the  lattice^ 
blinds  (now  closely  shut)  were  opened,  and  the  light  lei 
in,  ti-aces  were  discernible  among  this  finery,  of  wear 
and  tear  and  dust,  of  sun  and  damp  and  smoke,  and 
lengthened  intervals  of  want  of  use  and  habitation,  wlien 
Euch  shows  and  toys  of  life  seem  sensitive  like  life,  and 
waste  as  men  shut  up  in  prison  do.  Even  night,  and 
clustei^  of  burning  candles,  could  not  wholly  efface 
them,  though  the  general  glitter  threw  them  in  the 
shade. 

The  glitter  of  bright  tapers,  and  their  reflection  in 
looking-glasses,  scraps  of  gilding,  and  gay  colors,  were 
confined,  on  this  night,  to  one  room  — that  smaller  room 
within  the  rest,  just  now  enumerated.  Seen  from  the 
hall,  where  a  lamp  was  feebly  burning,  through  the  dark 
perspective  of  open  doors,  it  looked  as  shining  and  ^pre- 
cious as  a  gem.  In  the  heart  of  its  radiance  sat  a  beauti- 
ful woman  —  Edith. 

She  was  alone.  The  same  defiant,  scornful  woman 
still.  The  cheek  a  little  worn,  the  eye  a  little  larger  in 
appearance,  and  more  lustrous,  but  the  haughty  bear- 
ing just  the  same.  No  shame  upon  her  brow ;  no  late 
repentance  bending  her  disdainful  neck.  Imperious  and 
stately  yet,  and  yet  regardless  of  herself  and  of  all 
else,  she  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  cast  down,  waiting  for 
some  one. 

No  book,  no  work,  no  occupation  of  any  kind  but  her 
own  thoughts,  beguiled  the  tardy  time.  Some  purpose, 
Etroiig  enough  to  fill  up  any  pause,  possessed  her.  With 
her  lips  pressed  together,  and  quivering  if  for  a  mo- 
ment the  released  them  from  her  control ;  with  hei 
Qostril  inflated ;  her  hands  clasped  in  one  another ;  and 
aer  purpose  swelling  in  her  breast  ;  she  sat,  and  waited 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  165 

At  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  outer  door,  and  a  foot- 
step ill  the  hall,  she  started  up,  and  cried  "  Who's  that?" 
The  answer  was  In  French,  and  two  men  carae  in  with 
jingling  trays,  to  make  preparation  for  supper. 

"  Who  had  bade  them  do  so  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Monsieur  had  commanded  it,  when  it  was  his  pleas- 
ure to   take  the  apartment.      Monsieur  had  paid,  whei 
he  stayed  there  for  an  hour,  en  route,  and  left  the  let- ' 
ter  for  Madame  —  Madame  had  received  it  surely  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

**  A  thousand  pardons !  The  sudden  apprehension 
that  it  might  have  been  forgotten  had  struck  him;"  a 
bald  man,  with  a  large  beard  from  a  neighboring  re- 
ttaurant :  "  with  despair !  Monsieur  had  said  that  sup- 
per was  to  be  ready  at  that  hour  :  also  that  he  bad 
forewarned  Madame  of  the  commands  he  had  given,  in 
bis  letter.  Monsieur  had  done  the  Golden  Head  the 
honor  to  request  that  the  supper  should  be  choice  and 
delicate.  Monsieur  would  find  that  his  confidence  in 
the  Golden   Head  was  not  misplaced." 

Edith  said  no  more,  but  looked  on  thoughtfully  while 
they  prepared  the  table  for  two  persons,  and  set  the 
wine  upon  it.  She  arose  before  they  had  finished,  and 
taking  a  lamp,  passed  into  the  bedchamber,  and  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  she  hurriedly  but  narrowly  ex- 
amined all  the  doors ;  particularlyi  one  in  the  former 
room  that  opened  on  the  passage  in  the  wall.  From 
this  she  took  the  key,  and  put  it  on  the  outer  side. 
She  then  came  back. 

The  men  —  the  second  of  whom  was  a  dark,  bilioua 
wbject,  in  a  jacket,  close  shaved,  and  with  a  black  head 
»f  hair  close  cropped  —  had  completed  their  prepara- 
tion of  the  tab!  >,  and  were  standing  looking  at  it.     He 


166  DOMBEY    VND   SON. 

who    had    spoken    before,   inquired   whether    Madame 
thought  it  would  be  long  before  Monsieur  arrived? 

"  She  couldn't  say.     It  was  all  one." 

"  Pardon !  There  was  the  supper !  It  should  be 
eaten  on  the  instant.  Monsieur  (who  spoke  French 
like  an  Angel  —  or  a  Frenchman  —  it  was  all  the  same) 
had  spoken  with  great  emphasis  of  his  punctuality.  But 
the  English  nation  had  so  grand  a  genius  for  punctuality. 
Ah!  what  noise!  Great  Heaven,  here  was  Monsieur. 
Behold  him  !  " 

In  effect,  Monsieur,  admitted  by  the  other  of  the  two, 
came,  with  his  gleaming  teeth,  through  the  dark  rooms, . 
like  a  mouth  ;  and  arriving  in  that  sanctuary  of  light 
and  color,  a  figure  at  full  length,  embraced  Madame, 
and  addressed  her  in  the  French  tongue  as  his  charm- 
ing wife. 

"  My  God !  Madame  is  going  to  faint.  Madame  is 
overcome  with  joy ! "  The  bald  man  with  the  beard 
observed  it,  and  cried  out. 

Madame  had  only  shrunk  and  shivered.  Before  the 
words  were  spoken,  she  was  standing  with  her  hand 
upon  the  velvet  back  of  a  great  chair ;  her  figure  drawn 
aj)  to  its  full  height,  and  her  face  immovable. 

"  FrHn9ois  has  flown  over  to  the  Golden  Head  for 
snpper.  He  flies  on  these  occasions  like  an  angel  or 
a  bird.  The  baggage  of  Monsieur  is  in  his  room.  All 
is  arranged.  The  supper  will  be  here  this  moment-" 
These  facts  the  bald  man  notified  with  bows  and  smiles 
and  presently  the  supper  came. 

The  hot  dishes  were  on  a  chafing-dish  ;  the  cold  al 
ready  set  forth,  with  the  change  of  service  on  a  side* 
Doard.  Monsieur  was  satisfied  with  this  ari-angement 
The  supper-table  being  small,  it  pleased  him  very  well 


DOMUEY  AND  SON.  167 

Let  Ihem  set  tlie  chafing-dish  upon  the  floor,  arvl  go. 
He  would  remove  the  dishes  with  his  own  hands. 

"  Pardon  !  "  said  the  bald  man,  politely.  "  It  wjts  im- 
possible !  " 

Monsieur  was  of  another  opinion.  He  required  no 
further  attendance  that  night. 

"  Hut  madaine  " the  bald  man  hinted. 

"  Madame,"  replied  Monsieur,  "  had  her  owu  nuiii. 
It  was  enough." 

••  A  million  pardons  !     No  !  madame  had  no  maid  I " 

"  I  came  here  alone,"  said  Edith.  "  It  was  my  choice 
(o  do  so.  I  am  well  used  to  travelling ;  I  want  no  at- 
tendance.    They  need  send  nobody  to  me." 

Monsieur  accordingly,  persevering  in  his  first  proposed 
impossibility,  proceeded  to  follow  the  two  attendants  to 
the  outer  door,  and  secure  it  after  them  for  the  night 
The  bald  man  turning  round  to  bow,  as  he  went  out, 
observed  that  madame  still  stood  with  her  hand  u|)on 
the  velvet  back  of  the  great  cliair,  and  that  her  face 
was  quite  regardless  of  him,  though  she  was  looking 
straight  before  her. 

As  the  sound  of  Carker's  fastening  the  door  resounded 
through  the  intermediate  rooms,  and  seemed  to  come 
hushed  and  stifled  into  that  last  distant  one,  the  sound  of 
tlie  Cathedral  clock  striking  twelve  mingled  with  it,  in 
Edith's  ears.  She  heard  him  pause,  as  if  he  heard  it 
too  and  listened ;  and  then  come  back  towards  her,  lay- 
ing a  long  train  of  footsteps  througii  the  silence,  and 
shutting  all  the  doors  behind  him  as  he  came  nlong. 
Her  hand,  for  a  moment,  left  the  velvet  chair  to  bring  a 
knife  within  her  reach  upon  the  table  ;  then  she  stood  a» 
she  had  stood  before. 

"  How  strange  to  come  here  by  yourself,  my  love,* 
ke  baid  as  he  entered. 


J  68  DOSrBEY  AND  SON. 

"What!"  she  returned. 

Her  totie  was  so  harsh  ;  the  quick  turn  of  her  heatl  so 
fierce  ;  hor  attitude  so  repellant ;  and  her  form  so  black  ; 
that  he  stood,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  looking  at  her, 
as  if'  she  had  struck  him  motionless. 

"  I  say,"  he  at  length  repeated,  putting  down  the  lamp 
and  ?miHng  his  most  courtly  smile,  "  how  strange  to  come 
here  alone  !  It  was  unnecessary  caution  surely,  and  might 
have  defeated  itself.  You  were  to  have  engaged  an 
attendant  at  Havre  or  Rouen,  and  have  had  abundance 
of  time  for  the  purpose,  though  you  had  been  the  most 
capricious  and  difficult  (as  you  are  the  most  beautiful, 
my  love)  of  women." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  strangely  on  him,  but  she  stood 
with  her  hand  resting  on  the  chair,  and  said  not  a 
word. 

♦'  I  have  never,"  resumed  Carker,  "  seen  you  look  so 
handsome,  as  you  do  to-night.  Even  the  picture  I  have 
carried  in  my  mind  during  this  cruel  probation,  and 
which  I  have  contemplated  night  and  day,  is  exceeded 
by  the  reality." 

Not  a  word.  Not  a  look.  Her  eyes  completely  hid- 
den by  their  drooping  lashes,  but  her  head  held  up. 

"Hard,  unrelenting  terms  they  were!"  said  Carker, 
with  a  smile,  "  but  they  are  all  fulfilled  and  passed,  and 
make  the  present  more  delicious  and  more  safe.  Sicily 
shall  be  the  place  of  our  retreat.  In  the  idlest  and 
easiest  part  of  the  world,  my  soul,  we'll  both  seek  com- 
pensation for  old  slavery." 

He  was  coming  gayly  towards  her,  when,  in  an  instant, 
she  caught  the  knife  up  from  the  table,  and  started  one 
oace  back. 

"  Stand  still  I "  she  said,  "  or  I  shall  murder  you  1 " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  16$ 

The  sudden  chunge  in  her,  the  lowering  lury  nn«i 
Int-cn.se  abhorrence  sparkhng  in  her  eyes  and  lighting 
Up  her  brow,  made  him  stop  as  if  a  fire  had  stopped 
bim. 

"  Stand  still !  "  she  said,  "  come  no  nearer  mo,  upon 
your  life !  " 

They  both  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Rage  and 
astonishment  were  in  his  face,  but  he  controlled  thuoi. 
and  said  lightly, 

"  Come,  come  !  Tush,  we  are  alone,  and  out  of  every- 
body's sight  and  hearing.  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me 
with  these  tricks  of  virtue  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me"  she  answered  fiercely, 
**  from  any  purpose  that  I  have,  and  any  course  I  am 
resolved  upon,  by  reminding  me  of  the  solitude  of  this 
place,  and  there  being  no  help  near  ?  Me,  who  am  here 
alone,  designedly  ?  If  I  feared  you,  should  I  not  have 
avoided  you  ?  If  1  feared  you,  should  I  be  here,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  telling  you  to  your  face  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  ?  " 

"  And  what  is  that,"  he  said,  "  you  handsome  shrew  ? 
Handsomer  so,  than  any  other  woman  in  her  be?t 
humor  ?  " 

"I  tell  you  nothing,"  she  returned,  "until  you  go  back 
to  that  chair  —  except  this,  once  again  —  Don't  come 
near  me !  J^ot  a  step  nearer.  I  tell  you,  if  you  do, 
as   Heaven  sees  us,  I  shall  murder  you!" 

"  Do  you  mistake  me  for  your  husband  ?  **  he  re- 
torted, with  a  grin. 

Disdaining  to  reply,  she  stretched  her  arm  oat,  point 
Wg  to  the  chair.  He  bit  his  lip,  frowned,  la"'glied,  and 
sat  down  in  it,  with  a  baffled,  irresolute,  impatient  air 
ae    was    unable    to   conceal ;   and   biting    his    nail    ner 


170  DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 

rously,  and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  bitter  dis- 
comfit u  re,  even  while  he  feigned  to  be  amused  by  hei 
caprice. 

She  put  the  knife  down  upon  the  table,  and  touchiug 
her  bo.>ora  with  her  band,  said: 

"  I  have  something,  lying  here  that  is  no  love  trinket ; 
and  sooner  than  endure  your  touch  once  more,  I  would 
use  it  on  you  —  and  you  know  if,  while  I  speak  —  with 
less  reluctance  than  I  would  on  any  other  creeping  thing 
that  lives." 

He  affected  to  laugh  jestingly,  and  entreated  her  to 
act  her  play  out  quickly,  for  the  supper  was  growing 
cold.  But  the  secret  look  with  which  lie  rcgaided  her, 
was  more  sullen  and  lowering,  and  he  struck  his  foot 
once  upon  the  floor  with  a  muttered  oath. 

"  How  many  times,"  said  Edith,  bending  her  darkest 
glance  upon  him,  "  has  your  bold  knavery  assailed  me 
with  outrage  and  insult  ?  How  many  times  in  your 
smooth  manner,  and  mocking  words  and  looks,  have  I 
been  twitted  with  my  courtship  and  my  marriage?  How 
many  times  have  you  laid  bare  ray  wound  of  love  for 
that  sweet,  injured  girl,  and  lacerated  it  ?  How  often 
have  you  fanned  the  fire  on  which,  for  two  years,  I  have 
writhed ;  and  tempted  me  to  take  a  desperate  revenge, 
when  it  has  most  tortured  me  ? " 

"  1  have  no  doubt,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  "  that  you 
have  kept  a  good  account,  and  that  it's  pretty  accurate. 
Come,  Edith.  To  your  husband,  poor  wretch,  this  was 
well  enough  "  — 

"  Why,  if,"  she  said,  surveying  him  with  a  haughty 
cwntempt  and  disgust,  that  he  shrunk  under,  let  him 
brave  it  as  he  would,  "  if  all  my  other  reasons  for  de- 
spising him  could  have  been  blown  away  like  feathers, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  .  171 

Dift  having  you  for  his  counsfllor  and  favorite,  would 
have  ahnost  been  enougii  to  hold  their  place." 

"  Is  that  a  reason  why  you  have  run  away  with 
me  ?  "  he  asked  her,  tauntingly. 

"Yes,  and  why  we  are  face  to  face  for  the  last 
time.  Wretch  !  We  meet  to-night,  and  part  to-nisht. 
For  not  one  moment  after  I  have  ceased  to  speak,  will 
I  stay  here  !  " 

He  turned  upon  her  with  his  ugliest  look,  and  griped 
the  table  with  his  hand  ;  but  neither  rose,  nor  other- 
wise answered  or  threatened  hef. 

"  I  am  a  v;oman,"  she  said,  confronting  him  steadfastly, 
"  who  from  her  very  childhood  has  been  shamed  and 
steeled.  I  have  been  offei'ed  and  rejected,  put  up  and 
appraised,  until  my  very  soul  has  sickened.  I  have  not 
had  an  accomplishment  or  grace  that  might  have  been  a 
resource  to  me,  but  it  has  been  paraded,  and  vended  to 
enhance  ray  value,  as  if  the  common  crier  had  called  it 
through  the  streets.  My  poor,  proud  friends,  have  looked 
on  and  approved;  and  every  tie  between  us  has  been 
deadened  in  my  breast.  There  is  not  one  of  them  for 
whom  I  care,  as  I  could  care  for  a  pet-dog.  I  stand 
alone  in  the  world,  remembering  well  what  a  hollow 
world  it  has  been  to  me,  and  what  a  hollow  part  of  it  I 
have  been  myself.  You  know  this,  and  you  know  that 
my  fame  with  it  is  worthless  to  me." 

"Yes;  I  imagined  that,"  h«  said 

"And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined,  "and  so  pur 
Med  me.  Grown  too  indifferent  for  any  opposition  but 
indifference,  to  the  daily  working  of  the  hands  that  had 
moulded  me  to  this  ;  and  knowing  that  my  marriage 
would  at  least  prevent  their  hawking  of  me  up  and 
down  ;    I  suffered  myself   to  be  sold  as  infamously  v 


172  iJUMLEr  AND  SON. 

Rny  woman  with  a  halter  round  her  ueck  is  3.)l(l"in  any 
market-place.     You  know  that." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  showing  all  his  teeth.    "  I  know  ihat." 

"  And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined  once  more,  "  and 
so  pursued  me.  From  my  aaarriage-day,  I  found  myself 
exposed  to  such  new  shame  —  to  such  solicitation  and 
pursuit  (expressed  as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  written  in 
the  coarsest  words,  and  thrust  into  my  hand  at  every 
turn)  from  one  mean  villain,  that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  never 
known  humiliation  till  that  time.  This  shame  my  hus- 
band fixed  upon  me ;  hemmed  me  round  with,  himself; 
steeped  me  in,  with  his  own  hands,  and  of  his  own  act 
repeated  hundreds  of  times.  And  thus  —  forced  by  the 
two  from  every  point  of  rest  I  had  —  forced  by  the  two 
to  yield  up  the  last  retreat  of  love  and  gentleness  within 
me,  or  to  be  a  new  misfortune  on  its  innocent  object  — 
driven  from  each  to  each,  and  beset  by  one  when  I 
escaped  the  other  —  my  anger  rose  almost  to  distraction 
against  both.  I  do  not  know  against  which  it  rose  Jiigher 
—  the  master  or  the  man  ! " 

He  watched  her  closely,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  the 
very  triumph  of  her  indignant  beauty.  She  was  resolute, 
he  saw  ;  undauntable  ;  with  no  more  fear  of  him  than  of 
a  worm. 

"  What  should  I  say  of  honor  or  of  chastity  to  you  1 " 
she  went  on.  "  What  meaning  would  it  have  to  you  ; 
what  meaning  would  it  have  from  me  !  But  if  I  tell  you 
tha*  the  lightest  touch  of  your  hand  makes  my  blood  cold 
with  antipathy  ;  that  from  the  hour  when  I  first  saw  and 
bated  you,  to  now,  when  my  instinctive  repugnance  is 
enhanced  by  every  minute's  knowledge  of  you  I  have 
lince  had,  you  have  been  a  loathsome  creature  to  m* 
which  has  not  its  like  on  earth ;  how  then  ?  " 


DOMBEY   AND   SOX.  173 

He  answered,  with  a  faint  laugh,  "Ay!  How  then, 
my  queen  ?  " 

"  On  that  night,  when,  emboldened  by  the  scene  you 
had  assisted  at,  you  dared  come  to  my  room  and  speak 
to  nie,"  she  said,  "  what  passed  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  laughed  again. 

"  Wliat  passed  ?  "   she  said. 

"Your  memory  is  so  distinct,"  he  relumed,  "lliat  I 
liave  no  doubt  you  can  recall  it." 

"  I  ciin,"  she  said.  "  Hear  it !  Proposing  then,  this 
flight  —  not  this  flight,  but  the  flight  you  thought  it  — 
you  told  me  that  in  the  having  given  you  that  meeting, 
and  leaving  you  to  be  discovered  there,  if  you  so  thought 
fit ;  and  in  the  having  suffered  you  to  be  alone  with  me 
many  times  before,  —  and  having  made  the  opportuni- 
ties, you  said,  —  and  in  the  having  openly  avowed  to 
you  that  I  had  no  feeling  for  my  husband  but  aversion, 
and  no  care  for  myself — I  was  lost;  I  had  given  you 
the  power  to  traduce  my  name ;  and  I  lived,  in  virtuous 
reputation,  at  the  pleasure  of  your  breath." 

"  All  stratagems  in  love  "  —  he  interrupted,  smiling. 
"The  old  adage"  — 

"  On  that  night,"  said  Edith,  "  and  then  the  struggle 
that  I  long  had  had  with  something  that  was  not  respect 
for  my  good  fame  —  that  was  I  know  not  what  —  per^ 
haps  tlie  clinging  to  that  last  retreat  —  was  ended.  On 
tliat  night,  and  then,  I  turned  from  everything  but 
passion  and  resentment.  I  struck  a  blow  that  laid 
your  lofty  master  in  the  dust,  and  set  you  there,  be- 
fore me,"  looking  at  me  now,  and  knowing  what  1 
mean." 

Hte  sprung  up  from  his  chair  with  a  great  oath.  Sh« 
put  hor  hand  into  her  bosom,  and  nc  t  a  finger  trembled 


171  DOMUKV   ANU   SUN. 

ni)t  a  hair  upon  lier  head  was  stirred.     He  stood  still : 

she  too :  the  table  and  chair  between  them. 

"  Wlien  I  fori^et  that  this  man  put  his  lips  to  mine 
that  night,  and  held  me  in  his  arms  as  he  has  done  again 
to-night,"  said  Edith,  pointing  at  him  ;  "  when  I  forget 
the  taint  of  his  kiss  upon  my  cheek  —  the  cheek  that  Flor- 
ence would  have  laid  her  guiltless  face  against  —  when 
I  forget  my  meeting  with  her,  while  that  taint  was  hot 
upon  me,  and  in  what  a  flood  the  knowledge  rushed 
upon  me  when  I  saw  her,  that  in  releasing  her  from  the 
persecution  I  had  caused  her  by  my  love,  I  brought  a 
ehame  and  degradation  on  her  name  through  mine, 
and  in  all  time  to  come  should  be  the  solitary  figure 
representing  in  her  mind  her  first  avoidance  of  a  guilty 
creature  —  then,  Husband,  from  whom  I  stand  divorced 
henceforth,  I  will  forget  these  last  two  years,  and  undo 
what  I  have  done,  and  undeceive  you  ! " 

Her  flashing  eyes,  uplifted  for  a  moment,  lighted  again 
on  Carker,  and  she  held  some  letters  out  in  her  left  hand. 

"  See  these  !  "  she  said,  contemptuously.  "  You  have 
addressed  these  to  me  in  the  false  name  you  go  by  ;  one 
here,  some  elsewhere  on  my  road.  The  seals  are  un- 
broken.    Take  them  back  !  " 

She  crunched  them  in  her  hand,  and  tossed  them  to 
bis  feet.  And  as  she  looked  upon  him  now,  a  smile  was 
on  her  face. 

"  We  meet  and  part  to-night,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
feUen  on  Sicilian  days  and  sensual  rest,  too  soon.  You 
might  have  cajoled,  and  fawned,  and  played  your  trait- 
or's part,  a  little  longer,  and  grown  richer.  You  pur- 
chase your  voluptuous  retirement  dear! " 

"Edith!"  he  retorted,  menacing  her  with  his  hand. 
'Sit  down!  Have  done  with  this!  What  devil  poa- 
sesses  you  ?" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  I7fi 

**  Theii  name  is  Legion,"  she  replied,  iiprearing  hei 
proud  form  as  if  she  would  have  crushed  him ;  "  you  and 
your  master  have  raised  them  iu  a  fruitful  house,  and 
they  shall  tear  you  both.  False  to  him,  false  to  his  in- 
nocent child,  false  every  way  and  everywhere,  go  forth 
and  boast  of  me,  and  gnash  your  teeth  foi  once  to  know 
that  you  are  lying  !  " 

He  stood  before  her,  muttering  and  menacing,  and 
Ecowling  round  as  if  for  something  that  would  help  him 
to  conquer  her ;  but  with  the  same  indomitable  spirit  she 
opposed  him,  without  faltering. 

"  In  every  vaunt  you  make,"  she  said,  "  I  have  my 
triumph.  I  single  out  in  you  the  meanest  man  I  know, 
the  parasite  and  tool  of  the  proud  tyi-ant,  that  his  wound 
may  go  the  deeper  and  may  rankle  more.  Boast,  and 
revenge  me  on  him  !  You  know  how  you  came  here  to- 
night ;  you  know  how  you  stand  cowering  there ;  you 
see  yourself  in  colors  quite  as  despicable,  if  not  as 
odious,  as  those  in  which  I  see  you.  Boast  then,  and 
revenge  me  on  yourself." 

The  foam  was  on  his  lips;  the  wet  stood  on  his  fore- 
head. U  she  would  have  faltered  once,  for  only  one 
half  moment,  he  would  have  pinioned  her ;  but  she  was 
as  firm  as  rock,  and  her  searching  eyes  never  left  him. 

"  Wo  don't  part  so,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  I  am 
drivelling,  lo  let  you  go  in  your  mad  temper.'" 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  answered,  "  that  I  am  to  be 
stayed  ?  " 

"  I'll  try,  my  dear,"  he  said  with  a  ferocioos  gesture 
of  his  head. 

"  God's  mercy  on  you,  if  you  try  by  coming  near 
tie!"  she  replied. 

«  And  what,"  he  said,  "  if  there  are  none  of  these  same 


176  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

boasts  and  vaunts  on  ray  part  ?  what  if  I  were  to  turn 
too  ?  Come  !  "  and  his  teeth  fairly  shone  again.  "  We 
must  make  a  treaty  of  this,  or  /  may  take  some  unex- 
pected course.     Sit  down,  sit  down  !  " 

*'  Too  late ! "  she  cried,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to 
fparkle  fire.  "  I  have  thrown  my  fame  and  good  name 
to  the  winds !  I  have  resolved  to  bear  the  shame  that 
will  attach  to  me  —  resolved  to  know  that  it  attaches 
falsely  —  that  you  know  it  too  —  and  that  he  does  not, 
never  can,  and  never  shall.  I'll  die  and  make  no  sign. 
For  this  I  am  here  alone  with  you,  at  the  dead  of  night. 
For  this,  I  have  met  you  here,  in  a  false  name,  as  your 
wife.  For  tliis,  1  have  been  seen  here  by  those  men, 
and  left  here.     Nothing  can  save  you  now." 

He  would  have  sold  his  soul  to  root  her,  in  her  beauty, 
to  the  floor,  and  make  her  arms  drop  at  her  sides,  and 
have  her  at  his  mercy.  But  he  could  not  look  at  her, 
and  not  be  afraid  of  her.  He  saw  a  strength  within  her 
that  was  resistless.  He  saw  that  she  wsjs  desperate,  and 
that  her  unquenchable  hatred  of  him  would  stop  at  noth- 
ing. His  eyes  followed  the  hand  that  was  put  with  such 
rugged  uncongenial  purpose  into  her  white  bosom,  and 
he  thought  that  if  it  struck  at  him,  and  failed,  it  would 
strike  there,  just  as  soon. 

He  did  not  venture,  therefore,  to  advance  towaids 
lior ;  but  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered  was  behind 
liim,  and  he  stepped  back  to  lock  it. 

"  liftstly,  take  my  warning  I  look  to  yourself!"  she 
f&iil,  and  smiled  again.  "  You  have  been  betrayed,  as 
u!l  betrayers  are.  It  has  been  made  known  that  you 
are  in  this  place,  or  were  to  be,  or  have  been.  If  I  live, 
I  saw  my  husband  in  a  carriage  in  the  street  to-night  I " 

"  Strumptjt,  it's  false!  "  cried  Carker. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  177 

At  the  moment,  the  bell  rang  loudly  in  the  hall.  He 
turned  white,  as  she  held  her  hand  up  like  an  enchant- 
ress,  at  whose  invocation  the  sound  had  come. 

"  Hark  !  do  you  hear  it  ?  " 

Pie  set  his  back  against  the  door ;  for  he  saw  a  change 

.in  her,  and  fancied  she  was  coming  on  to  pass  him.    But, 

in  a  moment,  she  was  gone  through  the  opposite  doors 

communicating  with  the  bedchamber,  and  they  shut  upon 

hcT. 

Once  turned,  once  changed  in  her  inflexible  unyielding 
look,  he  felt  that  he  could  cope  with  her.  He  thought  a 
8udd("n  terror,  occasioned  by  this  night-alarm,  had  sub- 
dued her;  not  the  less  readily,  for  her  overwrought  con- 
dition. Throwing  open  the  doors,  he  followed,  almost 
instantly. 

Bnt  the  room  was  dark  ;  and  as  she  made  no  answer 
to  his  call,  he  was  fain  to  go  back  for  the  lamp.  He 
held  it  up,  and  looked  round  everywhere,  expecting  to 
see  her  crouching  in  some  corner ;  but  the  room  was 
empty.  So,  into  the  drawing-room  and  dining-room  he 
went,  in  succession,  with  the  uncertain  steps  of  a  man  in 
a  strange  place  ;  looking  feai-fuUy  about,  and  prying  be- 
hmd  screens  and  couches ;  but  she  was  not  there.  No, 
nor  in  the  hall,  which  was  so  bare  that  he  could  see  that, 
at  a  glance. 

All  this  time,  the  ringing  at  the  bell  was  constantly 
renewed,  and  those  without -were  beating  at  the  door. 
He  put  his  lamp  down  at  a  distance,  and  going  near  it, 
listened.  There  were  several  voices  talking  together; 
ftt  least  two  of  them  in  English  ;  and  though  the  door 
wras  thick,  and  there  was  great  confusion,  he  knew  one 
»f  these  too  well  to  doubt  whose  voice  it  was. 

He  took  up  his  lamp  again,  and  came  back  quicklj 

VOL.   IV.  12 


178  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

through  all  the  rooms,  stopping  as  he  quitted  eacl  and 
looking  round  for  her,  with  the  light  raised  abo*  i  h» 
head.  He  was  standing  thus  in  the  bedchamber,  when 
the  door,  leading  to  the  little  passage  in  the  wall, «  tughi 
his  eye.  He  went  to  it,  and  found  it  fastened  \a  the 
other  side  ;  but  she  had  dropped  a  veil  in  going  iL^'nugh, 
and  shut  it  in  the  door. 

All  this  time  the  people  on  the  stairs  were  rinfiflg  at 
the  bell,  and  knocking  with  their  hands  and  feet. 

He  was  not  a  coward :  but  these  sounds ;  wb«t  had 
gone  before;  the  strangeness  of  the  place,  which  had 
confused  him,  even  in  his  return  from  the  hUl  j  the 
frustration  of  his  schemes  (for,  strange  to  say,  he  would 
have  been  much  bolder,  if  they  had  succeeded)  ;  the  un- 
seasonable time ;  the  recollection  of  having  no  one  ntjar 
to  whom  he  could  appeal  for  any  friendly  office ;  above 
all,  the  sudden  sense,  which  made  even  his  he<irt  beat 
like  lead,  that  the  man  whose  confidence  he  had  out- 
raged, and  whom  he  had  so  treacherously  deceived,  was 
there  to  recognize  and  challenge  him  with  hid  mask 
plucked  off  his  face ;  struck  a  panic  through  him.  He 
tried  the  door  in  which  the  veil  was  shut,  but  couldn't 
force  it.  He  opened  one  of  the  windows,  and  looked 
down  through  the  lattice  of  the  blind,  into  the  court-yard ; 
but  it  was  a  high  leap,  and  the  stones  were  pitiless. 

The  ringing  and  knocking  still  continuing  —  his  panic 
too  ~- he  went  back  to  the- door  in  the  bedchiniber,  and 
with  some  new  efforts,  each  more  stubborn  than  the  last, 
wrenched  it  open.  Seeing  the  little  staircase  not  far  off, 
and  feeling  the  night-air  coming  up,  he  stole  back  for  his 
hat. and  coat,  made  the  door  as  secure  after  him  as  he 
could,  cropt  down  lamp  in  hand,  extinguished  it  on  see 
ing  the  stre:;t,  and  having  put  it  in  a  corner,  went  ou< 
where  the  stars  were  shining. 


1X>MBEY  AND  SON.  179 


CHAPTER  LV. 

ROB   THE   GRINDER   LOSES   HIS   TLACE. 

The  porter  at  the  iron  gate  which  shut  the  coui-t-yard 
fix)!!!  tlie  street,  had  left  the  little  wicket  of  his  house 
open,  and  was  gone  away ;  no  doubt  to  mingle  in  the 
distant  noise  at  the  door  on  the  staircase.  Lifting  the 
latch  softly,  Carker  crept  out,  and  shutting  the  jangling 
gate  after  him  with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  hurried  off. 

In  the  fever  of  his  mortification  and  unavailing  rage, 
the  panic  that  had  seized  upon  him  mastered  him  com- 
pletely. It  rose  to  such  a  height  that  he  would  have 
blindly  encountered  almost  any  risk,  rather  than  meet 
the  man  of  whom,  two  hours  ago,  he  had  been  utterly 
regardless.  His  fierce  arrival,  which  he  had  never  ex- 
pected ;  the  sound  of  his  voice  ;  their  having  been  so 
near  a  meeting  face  to  face ;  he  would  have  braved  out 
this,  after  the  first  momentary  shock  of  alarm,  and  would 
have  put  as  bold  a  front  upon  his  guilt  as  any  villain. 
But  the  springing  of  his  mine  upon  himself,  seemed  to 
have  rent  and  shivered  all  his  hardihood  and  self-reli- 
ance S|)urned  like  any  reptile  ;  entrapped  and  mocked ; 
turned  upon,  and  trodden  down  by  the  proud  woman 
whose  mind  he  had  slowly  poisoned,  as  he  thought,  until 
she  had  sunk  into  the  mere  creature  of  his  pleasure; 
undeceived  in  his  deceit,  and  with  his  fox's  hide  stripped 
off,  he  sneaked  away,  abashed,  degraded,  and  afraid. 


180  DOM  BEY   AND    SON. 

Some  other  terror  came  upon  him  quite  removed  from 
this  of  being  pursued,  suddenly  like  an  electric  shock, 
as  he  was  creeping  though  the  streets.  Some  visionary 
terror,  unintelligible  and  inexplicable,  associated  with  a 
trembling  of  the  ground, — a  rush  and  sweep  of  some 
thing  through  the  air,  like  Death  upon  the  wing.  H«? 
slu-unk,  as  if  to  let  the  thing  go  by.  It  was  not  gone.  It 
never  had  been  there,  yet  what  a  startluig  horror  it  had 
left  behind. 

He  raised  his  wicked  face,  so  full  of  trouble,  to  the 
night  sky  where  the  stars,  so  full  of  peace,  were  shining 
on  him  as  they  had  been  when  he  first  stole  out  into  the 
air ;  and  stopped  to  think  what  he  should  do.  The 
dread  of  being  hunted  in  a  strange  remo'e  plac"e,  where 
the  laws  might  not  protect  him  —  the  novelty  of  the 
feeling  that  it  wets  strange  and  remote,  originating  in  his 
being  left  alone  so  suddenly  amid  the  ruins  of  his  plana 
—  his  greater  dread  of  seeking  reftige  now,  in  Italy  or 
in  Sicily,  where  men  might  be  hired  to  assassinate  liim, 
he  thought,  at  any  dark  street  corner  —  the  waywardness 
of  guilt  and  fear  —  perhaps  some  sympathy  of  action 
with  the  turning  back  of  all  his  schemes  —  impelled  him 
to  turn  back  too,  and  go  to  England. 

"  I  am  safer  there,  in  any  case.  If  I  should  not  de- 
cide," he  thought,  "  to  give  this  fool  a  meeting,  1  am  less 
likely  to  be  traced  there,  than  abroad  here,  now.  And 
if  I  should  (this  cursed  fit  being  over),  at  least  I  shall 
not  be  alone,  without  a  soul  to  speak  to,  or  advise  with, 
or  stand  by  me.  I  shall  not  be  run  in  upon  and  worried 
like  a  rat 

He  muttered  Edith's  name,  and  clinched  his  hand. 
As  be  crept  along,  in  the  shadow  of  the  massive  huil<l- 
tigs,  he  set  his  teeth,  and  muttered  dreadful  impruca* 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  181 

tions  on  her  head,  and  looked  from  side  to  side,  as  if  in 
search  of  her.  Thus,  he  stole  on  to  the  gate  of  an  inn- 
yard.  The  people  were  abed ;  but  his  ringing  at  the 
bell  soon  produced  a  man  with  a  lantern,  in  company 
with  whom  he  was  presently  in  a  dim  coach-house,  bar 
gaining  for  the  hire  of  an  old  phaeton,  to  Paris. 

The  bargain  was  a  short  one ;  and  the  horses  were 
soon  sent  for.  Leaving  word  that  the  carriage  was  to  fol- 
low him  when  they  caine,  he  stole  away,  again  beyond  the 
town,  past  the  old  ramparts,  out  on  the  open  road,  which 
seemed  to  glide  away  along  the  dark  plain,  hke  a  stream  1 

Whither  did  it  flow  ?  What  was  the  end  of  it  ?  Aa 
he  paused,  with  some  such  suggestion  within  him,  look- 
ing over  the  gloomy  flat  where  the  slender  trees  marked 
out  the  way,  again  that  flight  of  Death  came  rushing  up, 
again  went  on,  impetuous  and  resistless,  again  was  noth- 
ing but  a  horror  in  his  mind,  dark  as  the  scene  and  un- 
defined as  its  remotest  verge. 

There  was  no  wind ;  there  was  no  passing  shadow  on 
the  deep  shade  of  the  night ;  there  was  no  noise.  The 
city  lay  behind  him,  lighted  here  and  there,  and  starry 
worlds  were  hidden  by  the  masonry  of  spire  and  roof 
that  hardly  made  out  any  shapes  against  the  sky.  Dark 
and  lonely  distance  lay  around  him  everywhere,  and  the 
clocks  were  faintly  striking  two. 

He  went  forward  for  what  appeared  a  long  time,  and 
a  long  way ;  often  stopping  to  listen.  At  last  the  ring- 
ing of  horses'  bells  greeted  his  anxious  ears.  Now 
softer,  and  now  louder,  now  inaudible,  now  ringing  very 
Blowly  over  bad  ground,  now  brisk  and  merry,  it  came 
on ;  until  with  a  loud  shouting  and  lashing,  a  shadowy 
postUion  muffled  to  the  eyes,  checked  his  four  struggling 
borses  at  his  side. 


182  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Who  goes  there  !     Monsieur  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Monsieur  has  walked  a  long  way  in  the  dark  mid 
night." 

"  No  matter.  Every  one  to  his  taste.  Were  there 
any  other  horses  ordered  at  the  post-house?  " 

"  A  thousand  devils  !  —  and  pardon  !  other  horses  ?  at 
this  hour  ?     No." 

"  Listen,  my  friend.  I  am  much  .hurried.  Let  us  see 
how  fast  we  can  travel !  The  faster  the  more  money 
there  will  be  to  drink.     Off  we  go  then  !     Quick  I  " 

"  Halloa  !  whoop !  Halloa  !  Hi ! "  Away,  at  a  gal- 
lop, over  the  black  landscape,  scattering  the  dust  and 
dirt  like  spray ! 

The  clatter  and  commotion  echoed  to  the  hurry  and 
discordance  of  the  fugitive's  ideas.  Nothing  clear  with- 
out and  nothing  clear  within.  Objects  Hitting  past, 
merging  into  one  another,  dimly  descried,  confusedly 
lost  sight  of,  gone !  Beyond  the  changing  scraps  of 
fence  and  cottage  immediately  upon  the  road,  a  lowering 
waste.  Beyond  the  shifting  images  that  rose  up  in  his 
mind  and  vani.-hed  as  they  showed  themselves,  a  black 
expanse  of  dread  and  rage  and  baffled  villany.  Occa- 
sionally, a  sigh  of  mountain  air  came  from  the  distant 
Jura,  fading  along  the  plain.  Sometimes  that  rush 
which  was  so  furious  and  horrible,  again  came  sweeping 
through  his  fancy,  passed  away,  and  left  a  chill  upon  his 
blood. 

The  lamps,  gleaming  on  the  medley  of  horses'  headsj 
jumbled  with  the  shadowy  driver,  and  the  fluttering  of 
\iis  cloak,  made  a  thousand  indistinct  shapes,  answering 
lo  his  thoughts.  Shadows  of  familiar  people,  stooping  a( 
their  desks  and  books,  in  their   remembered  attitudes 


UOMBEY  AND  SON.  18S 

Krange  apparitions  of  the  man  whom  he  was  flying 
from,  or  of  Edith  ;  repetitions  in  the  ringing  bells  and 
rolling  wheels,  of  words  that  had  been  spoken ;  confu- 
sions of  time  and  place,  making  last  night  a  month  agO; 
a  month  ago  last  night  —  home  now  distant  beyond  hope, 
now  instantly  accessible  ;  commotion,  discord,  hurry, 
darkness,  and  confusion  in  his  mind,  and  all  around  him. 
—  Halloa  !  Hi  !  away  at  a  gallop  over  the  black  land- 
scape ;  dust  and  dirt  flying  like  spray,  the  smoking  horseg 
snorting  and  plunging  as  if  each  of  them  were  ridden  by 
a  demon,  away  in  a  frantic  triumph  on  the  dark  road  — 
whither ! 

Again  the  nameless  shock  comes  speeding  up,  and  as 
it  passes,  the  bells  ring  in  his  ears  "  whither  ?  "  The 
wheels  roar  in  his  ears  "  whither  ?  "  All  the  noise  and 
rattle  shapes  itself  info  that  cry.  The  lights  and  shadows 
dance  upon  the  horses'  heads  like  imps.  No  stopping 
now  :  no  slackening  !  On,  on  !  Away  with  him  upon 
ihe  dark  road  wildly ! 

He  could  not  think  to  any  purpose.  He  could  not 
separate  one  subject  of  reflection  from  another,  suffi- 
ciently to  dwell  upon  it,  by  itself,  for  a  minute  at  a  time. 
The  crash  of  his  project  for  the  gaining  of  a  voluptu- 
ous compensation  for  past  restraint ;  the  overthrow  of 
his  treachery  to  on'i  who  had  been  true  and  generoua 
to  him,  but  whoso  least  proud  word  and  look  he  had 
treasured  up,  at  '.nterest,  for  years  —  for  false  and  subtle 
men  will  always  secretly  despise  and  dislike  the  object 
upjn  which  they  fawn,  and  always  resent  the  payment 
and  receipt  of  homage  that  they  know  to  be  worthless ; 
these  were  the  themes  uppermost  in  his  mind.  A  lurk- 
ing rage  against  the  woman  who  had  sc  entrapped  him 
Mid  avenged  herself  was  always  there ;  crude  and  mis- 


184  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

shapeu  schemes  of  retaliation  upon  her,  floated  in  his 
brain  ;  but  nothing  was  distinct.  A  hurry  and  centra- 
diction  pervaded  all  his  thoughts.  Even  while  he  was 
BO  busy  with  this  fevered,  ineffectual  thinking,  his  ont* 
constant  idea  was,  that  he  would  postpone  reflection  until 
pome  indefinite  time. 

Then,  the  old  days  before  the  second  marriage  rose  up 
it.  his  remembrance.  He  thought  how  jealous  lie  had 
been  of  the  boy,  how  jealous  he  had  been  of  die  girl, 
how  artfully  he  had  kept  intrudei-s  at  a  distance,  and 
drawn  a  circle  round  his  dupe  that  none  but  himself 
should  cross  ;  and  then  he  thought,  had  he  done  all  this 
to  be  flying  now,  like  a  scared  thief,  from  only  the  poor 
dupe  ? 

He  could  have  laid  hands  upon  himself  for  his  cow- 
ardice, but  it  was  the  very  shadow  of  his  defeat,  and 
could  not  be  separated  from  it.  To  have  his  confidence 
in  his  own  knavery  so  shattered  at  a  blow  —  to  be  with- 
in his  own  knowledge  such  a  miserable  tool — was  like 
being  paral3zed.  With  an  impotent  ferocity  he  raged 
at  Edith,  and  hated  Mr.  Dorabey  and  hated  himself,  but 
still  he  fled,  and  could  do  nothing  else. 

Again  and  again  he  listened  for  the  sound  of  wheels 
behind.  Again  and  again  his  fancy  heard  it,  coming 
on  louder  and  louder.  At  last  he  was  so  persuaded  of 
this,  that  he  cried  out,  "  Stop !  "  preferring  even  the  losa 
of  ground  to  such  uncertainty. 

The  word  soon  brought  carriage,  horses,  driver,  all  in 
R  heap  together,  across  the  road. 

"  The  devil !  "  cried  the  driver,  looking  over  his  shoul 
ler,  "  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"Hark!    What's  that?" 

"  What  ?  " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  18£ 

"That  noise." 

"  Ah  Heaven,  be  quiet,  cursed  brigand!"  to  a  horse 
who  shook  his  bells.     "  What  noise  ?  " 

'•  Behind.  Is  it  not  another  carriage  at  a  gallop  ? 
There  !  what's  tiiat  ?  " 

"  Miscreant  with  a  pig's  head,  stand  still ! "  lo  anothcT 
horse,  who  bit  another,  who  frightened  the  other  two, 
*vho  plunged  and  backed.     "There  is  nothing  coming." 

**  Nothing." 

"  No,  nothing  but  the  day  yonder." 

"  You  are  right,  I  think.  I  hear  nothing  now,  indeed. 
Go  on  !  " 

The  entangled  equipage,  half  hidden  in  the  reek- 
ing cloud  from  the  horses,  goes  on  slowly  at  first,  for 
the  driver,  checked  unnecessarily  in  his  progress,  sulkily 
takes  out  a  pocket-knife,  and  puts  a  new  lash  to  his 
whip.  Then  "  Hallo,  whoop  !  Hallo,  hi !  "  Away  once 
more,  savagely. 

And  now  the  stars  faded,  and  the  day  glimmered, 
and  standing  in  the  carriage,  looking  back,  he  could  dis- 
cern the  track  by  which  he  had  come,  and  see  that  there 
was  no  traveller  within  view,  on  all  the  heavy  expanse. 
And  soon  it  was  broad  day,  and  the  sun  began  to  shine 
on  corn-fields  and  vineyards  ;  and  solitary  laborers,  risen 
from  little  temporary  huts  by  heaps  of  stones  upon  the 
road,  were,  here  and  there,  at  work  repairing  the  high- 
way, or  eating  bread.  By  and  by  there  were  peasants  go- 
ing to  their  daily  labor,  or  to  market,  or  lounging  at  the 
doors  of  poor  cottages,  gazing  idly  at  him  as  he  passed 
And  then  there  was  a  post-yard,  ankle-deep  in  nmd, 
with  steaming  dunghills  and  vast  out-houses  half  ruined  ; 
and  looking  on  this  dainty  prospect,  an  immense,  old, 
shadeless,  irlaring,  stone  chateau,   with  half  its  windows 


186  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

blinded,  and  green  damp  crawling  lazily  over  it,  from 
the  balustraded  terrace  to  the  taper  tips  of  the  extin- 
guishers upon  the  turrets. 

Gathered  up  moodily  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  and 
only  intent  on  going  fast  —  except  when  he  stood  up, 
for  a  mile  together,  and  looked  back  ;  which  he  would 
do  whenever  there  was  a  piece  of  open  country  —  he 
went  on,  still  postponing  thought  indefinitely,  and  still 
always  tormented  with  thinking  to  no  purpose. 

Shame,  disappointment,  and  discomfiture  gnawed  at 
his  heart ;  a  constant  apprehension  of  being  overtaken, 
or  met  —  for  he  was  groundlessly  afraid  even  of  travel- 
lers, who  came  towards  him  by  the  way  he  was  go- 
ing —  oppressed  him  heavily.  The  same  intolerable 
awe  and  dread  that  had  come  upon  him,  in  the  night, 
returned  unweakened  in  the  day.  The  monotonous  ring- 
ing of  the  bells  and  tramping  of  the  horses  ;  the  monot- 
ony of  his  anxiety,  and  useless  rage ;  the  monotonous 
wheel  of  fear,  regret,  and  passion,  he  kept  turning  round 
and  round  ;  made  the  journey  like  a  vision,  in  whijh 
nothing  was  quite  real  but  his  own  torment. 

It  was  a  vision  of  long  roads ;  that  stretched  away  to 
an  horizon,  always  receding  and  never  gained ;  of  ill- 
paved  towns,  up  hill  and  down,  where  faces  came  to  dark 
doors  and  ill-glazed  windows,  and  where  rows  of  mud- 
bespattered  cows  and  oxen  were  tied  up  for  sale  in  the 
long  narrow  streets,  butting  and  lowing,  and  receiving 
blows  on  their  blunt  heads  from  bludgeons  that  might 
have  beaten  them  in  ;  of  bridges,  crosses,  churches,  post- 
yards,  new  horses  being  put  in  against  their  wills,  and 
^he  horses  of  the  last  stage  reeking,  panting,  and  laying 
iheir  drooping  heads  together  dolefully  at  stable-doors; 
»f  little  cemeteries  with  black  crosses  settled  sideways 


DOMBEY  AXD   SON.  187 

b  the  graves,  and  withered  wreaths  upon  them  drop- 
ping away ;  again  of  long,  long  roads,  dragging  them- 
gelves  out,  up  hill  and  down,  to  the  treacherous  hori 
zon. 

Of  morning,  noon,  and  sunset ;  night,  and  the  rising 
of  an  early  moon.  Of  long  roads  temporarily  left  behind 
and  a  rough  [)averaent  reached  ;  of  battering  and  clat- 
tering over  it,  and  looking  up,  among  house-roofs,  at  • 
great  church-tower  ;  of  getting  out  and  eating  hastily, 
and  drinking  draughts  of  wine  that  had  no  cheering 
influence ;  of  coming  forth  afoot,  among  a  host  of  beg- 
gars —  blind  men  with  quivering  eyelids,  led  by  old 
women  holding  candles  to  their  faces  ;  idiot  girls  ;  the 
lame,  the  epileptic,  and  the  palsied  —  of  passing  through 
the  clamor,  and  looking  from  his  seat  at  the  upturned 
countenances  and  outstretched  hands,  with  a  hurried 
dread  of  recognizing  some  pursuer  pressing  forward —  of 
galloping  away  again,  upon  the  long,  long  road,  gathered 
up,  dull  and  stunned,  in  his  corner,  or  rising  to  see 
where  the  moon  shone  faintly  on  a  patch  of  the  same 
endless  road  miles  away,  or  looking  back  to  see  who 
followed. 

Of  never  sleeping,  but  sometimes  dozing  with  un- 
closed eyes,  and  springing  up  with  a  start,  and  a  reply 
aloud  to  an  imaginary  voice.  Of  cursing  himself  for 
being  there,  for  having  fled,  for  having  let  her  go,  for 
not  having  confronted  and  defied  him.  Of  having  a 
deadly  quarrel  with  tlie  whole  world,  but  chieHy  with 
himself.  Of  blighting  everything  with  his  black  mood 
as  he  was  carried  on  and  away. 

It  was  a  fevered  vision  of  things  past  and  present 
all  confounded  together;  of  his  life  and  journey  blended 
into  oiis.     Of  being  madly  hurried  somewliere,  whither 


188  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

he  must  go.  Of  old  scenes  starting  up  among  die 
novelties  tlirough  which  he  travelled.  Of  musing  and 
brooding  over  what  was  past  and  distant,  and  seeming 
to  'ako  no  notice  of  the  actual  objects  he  encountered, 
but  with  a  wearisome  exhausting  consciousness  of  being 
bewildered  by  them,  and  having  their  images  all  crowded 
in  his  hot  brain  after  they  were  gone. 

A  vision  of  change  upon  change,  and  still  the  same 
monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no 
rest.  Of  town  and  country,  post-yards,  horses,  drivers, 
hill  and  valley,  light  and  darkness,  road  and  pavement, 
height  and  hollow,  wet  weather  and  dry,  and  still  the 
same  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and 
no  rest.  A  vision  of  tending  on  at  last,  towards  the 
distant  capital,  by  busier  roads,  and  sweeping  round,  by 
old  cathedrals,  and  dashing  through  small  towns  and  vil- 
lages, less  thinly  scattered  on  the  road  than  formerly, 
and  sitting  shrouded  in  his  corner,  with  his  cloak  up 
to  his  face,  as  people  passing  by  looked  at  him. 

Of  rolling  on  and  on,  always  postponing  thought,  and 
always  racked  with  thinking ;  of  being  unable  to  reckon 
up  the  hours  he  had  been  upon  the  road,  or  to  compre- 
hend the  points  of  time  and  place  in  his  journey.  Of 
being  parched  and  giddy,  and  half  mad.  Of  pressing 
on,  in  spite  of  all,  as  if  he  could  not  stop,  and  coming 
into  Paris,  where  the  turbid  river  held  its  swift  course 
undisturbed,  between  two  brawling  streams  of  life  and 
motion. 

A  troubled  vision,  then,  of  bridges,  quays,  intermin- 
able streets  ;  of  wine-shops,  water-carriers,  great  crowds 
of  people,  soldiers,  coaches,  military  drums,  arcades.  Of 
the  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels  and  horses'  feet  being 
at  length  lost  in  the  universal  din  and  uproar.     Of  th« 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  189 

gradual  subsidence  of  that  noise  as  he  passed  out  in  an- 
other carriage  by  a  different  barrier  from  that  by  which 
he  had  entered.  Of  the  restoratiop,  as  he  travelled  on 
towards  the  sea-coast,  of  the  monotony  of  bells  and 
wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest. 

Of  sunset  once  again,  and  nightfall.  Of  long  roads 
■gain,  and  dead  of  night,  and  feeble  lights  in  windows  by 
the  roadside ;  and  still  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and 
wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of  dawn,  and 
daybreak,  and  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Of  toiling  slowly 
up  a  hill,  and  feeling  on  its  top  the  fresh  sea-breeze  ;  and 
seeing  the  morning  light  upon  the  edges  of  the  distant 
waves.  Of  coming  down  into  a  harbor  when  the  tide 
was  at  its  full,  and  seeing  fishing-boats  float  in,  and  glad 
women  and  children  waiting  for  them.  Of  nets  and  sea- 
men's clothes  spread  out  to  dry  upon  the  shore ;  of  busy 
Bailors,  and  their  voices  high  among  ships'  masts  and  rig- 
ging ;  of  the  buoyancy  and  brightness  of  the  water,  and 
the  universal  sparkling. 

Of  receding  from  the  coast,  and  looking  back  upon  it 
from  the  deck  when  it  was  a  haze  upon  the  water,  with 
here  and  there  a  little  opening  of  bright  land  where  the 
Sun  struck.  Of  the  swell,  and  flash,  and  murmur  of  the 
calm  sea.  Of  another  gray  line  on  the  ocean,  on  the 
vessel's  track,  fast  growing  clearer  and  higher.  Of 
cliffs  and  buildings,  and  a  windmill,  and  a  church,  becom- 
ing more  and  more  visible  upon  it.  Of  steaming  on  at 
last  into  smooth  water,  and  mooring  to  a  pier  whence 
groups  of  people  looked  down,  greeting  friends  on  board. 
Of  disembarking,  passing  among  them  quickly,  shunning 
eveiy  one  ;  and  of  being  at  last  again  in  England. 

He  had  thought,  in  his  dream,  of  going  down  into  » 
remote  country-place  he  knew,  and   lying   quiet  there, 


190  DOMBET  AND   SON. 

while  he  secretly  informed  himself  of  what  transpired, 
»nd  determined  how  to  act.  Still  in  the  same  stunned 
condition,  he  remembered  a  certain  station  on  the  rail- 
way, where  he  would  have  to  branch  off  to  his  place  of 
destination,  and  where  there  was  a  quiet  inn.  Here  he 
indistinctly  resolved  to  tarry  and  rest. 

With  this  purpose  he  slunk  into  a  railway  carriage  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  and  lying  there  wrapped  in  his 
cloak  as  if  he  were  asleep,  was  soon  borne  far  away 
from  the  sea,  and  deep  into  the  inland  green.  Arrived 
at  his  destination  he  looked  out,  and  surveyed  it  care- 
fully. He  was  not  mistaken  in  his  impression  of  the 
place.  It  was  a  retired  spot,  on  the  borders  of  a  little 
wood.  Only  one  house,  newly-built  or  altered  for  the 
purpose,  stood  there,  surrounded  by  its  neat  garden  ;  the 
small  town  that  was  nearest,  was  some  miles  avvay. 
Here  he  alighted  then  ;  and  going  straight  into  the 
tavern,  unobserved  by  any  one,  secured  two  rooms  up- 
stairs communicating  with  each  other  and  sufficiently 
retired. 

His  object  was  to  rest,  and  recover  the  command  of 
himself,  and  the  balance  of  his  mind.  Imbecile  discom- 
fiture and  rage  —  so  that,  as  he  walked  about  his  room, 
he  ground  his  teeth  —  had  complete  possession  of  him. 
His  thoughts,  not  to  be  stopped  or  directed,  ^still  wan- 
dered where  they  would,  and  dragged  him  after  them. 
He  was  stupefied,  and  he  was  wearied  to  death. 

But,  as  if  there  were  a  curse  upon  him  that  he  should 
never  rest  again,  his  drowsy  senses  would  not  lose  their 
consciousness.  He  had  no  more  influence  with  them,  in 
this  regard,  than  if  they  had  been  another  man's.  It 
was  not  that  they  forced  him  to  take  note  of  present 
Rounds  and  objects,  but  that  they  would  not  be  diverted 


^  DOMBEY  AND  SON.  191 

from  the  whole  hurried  vision  of  his  journey.  It  waa 
constantly  before  him  all  at  once.  She  stood  there,  with 
her  dark,  disdainful  eyes  again  upon  him ;  and  he  was 
riding  on  nevertheless,  through  town  and  country,  light 
and  darkness,  wet  weather  and  dry,  over  road  and  pave 
ment,  hill  and  valley,  hoight  and  hollow,  jaded  and  scared 
by  the  monotony  of  bells,  and  wheels,  and  horsijs'  feet, 
and  no  rest. 

"  "What  day  is  this  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  waiter,  who  was 
making  preparation  for  his  dinner. 

"  Day,  sir  ?  " 

"  Is  it  "Wednesday  ?  " 

"  Wednesday,  sir  ?     No,  sir.     Thursday,  sir." 

"  I  forgot.  How  goes  the  time  ?  My  watch  is  un- 
wound." 

"  Wants  a  few  minutes  of  five  o'clock,  sir.  Been  trav- 
elling a  long  time,  sir,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  By  rail,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  "Very  confusing,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of  trav- 
elling by  rail  myself,  sir,  but  gentlemen  frequently  saj 

BO." 

"  Do  many  gentlemen  come  here  ?  " 

•*  Pretty  well,  sir,  in  general.  Nobody  here  at  prea 
ent.  Rather  slack  just  now,  sir.  Everything  {$  8lack» 
sir." 

He  made  no  answer ;  but  had  risen  into  a  sittmg  pos- 
ture on  the  sofa  where  he  had  been  lying,  and  leaned 
forward  with  an  arm  on  each  knee,  staring  at  the  ground. 
He  could  not  master  his  own  attention  for  a  minute  to- 
gether. It  rushed  away  where  it  would,  but  it  never 
far  an  instant,  lost  itself,  in  sleep. 


192  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

He  drank  a  quantity  of  wine  after  dinner,  in  vain 
No  such  artificial  means  would  bring  sleep  to  his  eyes. 
His  thought?,  more  incoherent,  dragged  him  more  un- 
mercifully after  them  —  as  if  a  wretch,  condemned  to 
Buch  expiation,  were  drawn  at  the  heels  of  wild  horses. 
No  oblivion,  and  no  rest. 

How  long  he  sat  drinking  and  brooding,  and  being 
draggiid  in  imagination  hither  and  thither,  no  one  cculd 
have  told  less  correctly  than  he.  But  he  knew  that  he 
had  be3n  sitting  a  long  time  by  candle-light,  when  he 
started  up  and  listened,  in  a  sudden  terror. 

For  now,  indeed,  it  was  no  fancy.  The  ground  shook, 
the  house  rattled,  the  fierce  impetuous  rush  was  in  the 
air !  He  felt  it  come  up,  and  go  darting  by ;  and  even 
when  he  had  hurried  to  the  window,  and  saw  what  it 
was,  he  stood,  shrinking  from  it,  as  if  it  were  not  safe  to 
look. 

A  curse  upon  the  fiery  devil,  thundering  along  so 
smoothly,  tracked  through  the  distant  valley  by  a  glare 
of  light  and  lurid  smoke,  and  gone !  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  been  plucked  out  of  its  path,  and  saved  from  being 
torn  asunder.  It  made  him  shrink  and  shudder  even 
now,  when  its  faintest  hum  was  hushed,  and  when  the 
lines  of  iron  road  he  could  trace  in  the  moonlight,  run- 
ning to  a  point,  were  as  empty  and  as  silent  as  a  desei't. 

Unable  to  rest,  and  irresistibly  attracted  —  or  hf 
hought  so  —  to  this  road,  he  went  out,  and  lounged  on 
the  brink  of  it,  marking  the  way  the  train  had  gone,  by 
the  yet  smoking  cinders  that  were  lying  in  its  track. 
A-fter  a  lounge  of  some  half  hour  in  the  direction  by 
which  it  had  disappeared,  he  turned  and  walked  the 
other  way  —  still  keeping  to  the  brink  of  the  road  — - 
past  the  inn  garden,  and  a  long  yvay  down ;  looking  ci;ri 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  198 

oufily  at  the  oridge.s  signals,  lamps,  and  wondering  when 
auotlier  Devil  would  come  by. 

A  trembling  of.  the  ground,  a  quick  vibration  in  hia 
ears  ;  a  distant  shriek  ;  a  dull  light  advancing,  quickly 
changed  to  two  red  eyes,  and  a  fierce  fire,  dropping  glow- 
ing coals ;  an  irresistible  bearing  on  of  a  great  roaring 
and  dilating  mass ;  a  high  wind,  and  a  rattle  —  auothei 
come  and  gone,  and  he  holding  to  a  gate,  as  if  to  save 
himself! 

He  waited  for  another,  and  for  another.  He  walked 
back  to  his  former  point,  and  back  again  to  that,  and  still, 
through  the  wearisome  vision  of  his  journey,  looked  for 
these  approaching  monsters.  He  loitered  about  the  station, 
waiting  until  one  should  stay  to  call  tiiere ;  and  when  one 
did,  and  was  detached  for  water,  he  stood  parallel  with  it, 
watcliing  its  heavy  wheels  and  brazen  front,  and  thinking 
what  a  ciucl  power  and  might  it  had.  Ugh  !  To  see 
the  great  wheels  slowly  turning,  and  to  think  of  being 
run  down  and  crushed ! 

Disordered  with  wine  and  want  of  rest  —  that  want 
which  nothing,  although  he  was  so  weary,  would  appease 
—  these  ideas  and  objects  assumed  a  diseased  importance 
in  his  thoughts.  When  he  went  back  to  his  room,  Which 
was  not  until  near  midnight,  they  still  haunted  him,  and 
he  sat  listening  for  the  coming  of  anoilier. 

So  in  his  bed,  whither  he  repaired  with  no  hope  of 
ileep.  He  still  lay  listening ;  and  when  he  felt  the 
trembling  and  vibration,  got  up  and  went  to  the  window, 
to  watch  (as  he  could  from  its  position)  the  dull  light 
changing  to  the  two  red  eyes,  and  the  fierce  fire  drop- 
ping glowing  coals,  and  the  rush  of  the  giant  as  it  fled 
past,  and  the  track  of  glare  and  smoke  along  the  valley. 
Then  he  would  glance  in  the  direction  by  which  he  in 

VOL.  IV.  13 


194  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ended  to  depart  at  sunrise,  as  there  was  no  rest  for  him 
there  ;  and  would  lie  down  again,  to  be  troubled  by  the 
vision  of  Lis  journey,  and  the  old  monqtony  of  bells  and 
wheels  and  horses'  feet,  until  another  came.  This  lasted 
all  night.  So  far  from  resuming  the  mastery  of  himself, 
he  seemed,  if  possible,  to  lose  it  more  and  more,  as  the 
night  crept  on.  When  the  dawn  appeared,  he  was  stili 
tormented  with  thinking,  still  postponing  thought  until  he 
should  be  in  a  better  state ;  the  past,  present,  and  futura 
all  floated  confusedly  before  him,  and  he  had  lost  all 
power  of  looking  steadily  at  any  one  of  them. 

"  At  what  time,"  he  asked  the  man  who  had  waited  on 
him  overnight,  now  entering  with  a  candle,  "  do  1  leave 
here,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"About  a  quarter  after  four,  sir.  Express  comes 
through  at  four,  sir.  —  Don't  stop." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  throbbing  head,  and 
looked  at  his  watch.     Nearly  half-past  three. 

"  Nobody  going  with  you,  sir,  probably,"  observed  the 
man.  "Two  gentlemen. here,  sir,  but  they're  waiting  for 
the  train  to  London." 

"  I  thought  you  said  there  was  nobody  here,"  said 
Carker,  turning  upon  him  with  the  ghost  of  his  old  smile, 
when  he  was  angry  or  suspicious. 

'*  Not  then,  sir.  Two  gentlemen  came  in  the  night  bj 
the  short  train  that  stops  here,  sir.     Warm  water,  sir?" 

"  No  ;  and  take  away  the  candle.  There's  day  enough 
for  me." 

Having  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed,  half  dressed,  be 
was  at  the  window  as  the  man  left  the  room.  The  cold 
(ight  of  morning  had  succeeded  to  night,  and  there  was, 
already,  in  the  sky,  the  red  suffusion  of  the  coming  sun. 
Be  bathe<l  his  head  and  face  with  water  —  there,  was  no 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  194 

cooling  influence  in  it  for  him  —  hurriedly  put  on  his 
clothes,  paid  what  he  owed,  and  went  out. 

The  air  struck  chill  and  comfortless  as  it  breathed 
upon  him.  There  was  a  heavy  dew;  and,  hot  as  he 
was,  it  made  him  shiver.  After  a  glance  at  the  place 
where  he  had  walked  lust  night,  and  at  the  signal-light* 
burning  feebly  in  the  morning,  and  beroft  of  their  sig- 
nificance, he  turned  to  where  the  sun  was  rising,  and 
beheld  it,  in  its  glory,  as  it  broke  upon  the  scene. 

So  awful,  so  transcendent  in  its  beauty,  so  divinely 
Bolemn.  As  he  cast  his  faded  eyes  upon  it,  where  it 
rose,  tranquil  and  serene,  unmoved  by  all  the  wrong  and 
wickedness  on  which  its  beams  had  shone  since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world,  who  shall  say  that  some  weak  sense 
of  virtue  upon  Earth,  and  its  reward  in  Heaven,  did  not 
manifest  itself,  even  to  him  ?  If  ever  he  remembered 
sister  or  brother  with  a  touch  of  tenderness  and  remorse, 
who  shall  say  it  was  not  then  ? 

He  needed  some  such  touch  then.  Death  was  on  him. 
He  was  marked  off  from  the  hving  world,  and  [;oing 
down  into  his  grave. 

He  paid  the  money  for  his  journey  to  the  country- 
place  he  had  thought  of;  and  was  walking  to  an('  fro, 
alone,  looking  along  the  lines  of  iron,  across  the  valley  in 
one  direction,  and  towards  a  dark  bridge  near  at  hand  in 
the  other;  when,  turning  in  his  walk,  where  It  was  bounded 
by  one  end  of  the  wooden  stage  on  which  he  paced  up 
and  down,  he  saw  the  man  from  whom  he  had  fled, 
emerging  from  tlie  door  by  which  he  himself  had  entered 
there.     And  their  eyes  met. 

In  the  quick  unsteadiness  of  the  surprise,  he  staggered, 
ind  slipped  on  to  the  road  below  him.  But  recovering 
lis  feet  immediately,  he  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  upon 


196  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

hat  road,  to  interpose  some  wider  space  between  them, 
ind  looked  at  his  pursuer,  breathing  short  and  quick. 

He  heard  a  shout  —  another  —  saw  the  face  change 
from  its  vindictive  passion  to  a  faint  sickness  and  teiTor 
—  felt  the  earth  tremble  —  knew  in  a  moment  that  the 
rosh  was  come  —  uttered  a  shriek — looked  round—. 
saw  the  red  eyes,  bleared  and  dim,  in  the  daylight,  close 
upon  him  —  was  beaten  down,  caught  up,  and  whirled 
away  upon  a  jagged  mill,  that  spun  him  round  and  round, 
and  struck  him  limb  from  limb,  and  licked  his  stream  of 
life  up  with  its  fiery  heat,  and  cast  his  mutilated  frag- 
ments in  the  air. 

WTien  the  traveller  who  had  been  recognized,  recov- 
ered from  a  swoon,  he  saw  them  bringing  from  a  distance 
something  covered,  that  lay  heavy  and  still,  upon  a  board, 
between  four  men,  and  saw  that  others  drove  some  doga 
away  that  sniffed  upon  the  road,  and  soaked  his  blood  up^ 
with  a  train  of  ashes. 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  197 


CHAPTER  LVL 

BRVERAL   PEOPLE    DELIGHTED,   AND    THE   GAME    CIUCEK2« 
DISGUSTED. 

TiiE  IMidshiprnan  was  all  alive.  Mr.  Toots  and  Susau 
had  arrived  at  last.  Susan  had  run  up-stairs  like  a 
young  woman  bereft  of  her  senses,  and  Mr.  Toots  and 
the  Cliicken  had  gone  into  the  parlor. 

■'Oh  my  own  pretty  darling  sweet  Miss  Floy  !"  cried 
the  Nipper,  running  into  Florence's  room,  "  to  think  that 
it  should  come  to  this  and  I  should  find  you  here  my  own 
dear  dove  with  nobody  to  wait  upon  you  and  no  home  to 
call  your  own  but  never,  never  will  I  go  away  again 
Miss  Floy  for  though  I  may  not  gather  moss  I'm  not  a 
rolling  stone  nor  is  my  heart  a  stone  or  else  it  wouldn't 
bust  as  it  is  busting  now  oh  dear  oh  dear ! " 

Pouring  out  these  words,  without  the  faintest  indica- 
tion of  a  stop,  of  any  sort.  Miss  Nipper,  on  her  kneea 
beside  her  mistress,  hugged  her  close. 

"  Oh  love  !  "  cried  Susan,  "  I  know  all  that's  past,  I 
know  it  all  my  tender  pet  and  I'm  a  choking  give  me 
air!" 

«  Susan,  dear  good  Susan  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Oh  bless  her  !  I  that  was  her  little  maid  when  she 
was  a  little  child !  and  is  she  really,  really  truly  going  to 
be  married ! "  exclaimed  Susan,  in  a  burst  of  pain  and 
pleasure,  pride  and  grief,  and  Heaven  knows  how  many 
other  conflicting  feelings. 


198  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

'Who  told  you  so?"  said  Florence. 

"  Oh  gracious  me !  that  innocentest  creetur  Toots," 
relurned  Susan,  hysterically.  "I  knew  he  must  be  right 
my  dear,  because  he  took  on  so.  He's  the  devotedest 
and  innocentest  infant !  And  is  my  darling,"  pursued 
Susan,  with  another  close  embrace  and  burst  of  tears, 
**  really,  really  going  to  be  married  ! " 

The  mixture  of  compassion,  pleasure,  tenderness,  pro* 
taction,  and  regret  with  which  the  Nipper  constantly  re- 
curred to  this  subject,  and  at  every  such  recurrence, 
raised  her  head  to  look  in  the  young  face  and  kiss  it, 
and  then  laid  her  head  again  upon  her  mistress's  shoul- 
der, caressing  her  and  sobbing,  was  as  womanly  and 
good  a  thing,  in  its  way,  as  ever  was  seen  in  the  world. 

"  There,  there  !  "  said  the  soothing  voice  of  Florence* 
presently.     "  Now  you're  quite  yourself,  dear  Susan  !  " 

Miss  Nipper,  sitting  down  upon  the  floor,  at  her  mis- 
tress's feet,  laughing  and  sobbing,  holding  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  patting 
Diogenes  with  the  other  as  he  licked  her  face,  confessed 
to  being  more  composed,  and  laughed  and  cried  a  little 
more  in  proof  of  it. 

"I  —  I  —  I  never  did  see  such  a  creetur  as  that 
Toots,"  said  Susan,  "  in  all  my  born  days,  never ! " 

"  So  kind,"  suggested  Florence. 

"  And  so  comic  ! "  Susan  sobbed.  "  The  way  he's 
been  going  on  inside  with  me,  with  that  disrespectable 
Chicken  on  the  box  !  " 

"About  what,  Susan?"  inquired  Florence,  timidly. 

"  Oh  about  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  Captain  Gills, 
and  you  my  dear  Miss  Floy,  and  the  silent  tomb,"  said 
Susan. 

"  The  silent  tomb  !  "  repeated  Florence. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  199 

'  He  "^ays,"  here  Susan  burst  into  a  vioknt  hysterica? 
laujih,  "  that  he'll  go  down  into  it  now,  immediately  and 
quite  eomfortable,  but  bless  your  heart  my  dear  Miss 
Floy  he  won't,  he's  a  great  deal  too  happy  in  seeing 
other  people  liappy  for  that,  he  may  not  be  a  Solomon," 
pursued  the  Nipper,  with  her  usual  volubility,  "  nor  do 
I  say  he  is,  but  this  I  do  say,  a  less  selfish  human  crea- 
ture human  nature  never  knew  !  " 

Miss  Nipper  being  still  hysterical,  laughed  immoder- 
ately after  making  this  energetic  declaration,  and  then 
informed  Florence  that  he  was  waiting  below  to  see  her ; 
which  would  be  a  rich  repayment  for  the  trouble  he  had 
had  in  his  late  expedition. 

Florence  entreated  Susan  to  beg  of  Mr.  Toots  as  a 
favor  that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  thanking  hira 
for  his  kindness  ;  and  Susan,  in  a  few  moments,  produced 
that  young  gentleman,  still  veiy  much  dishevelled  in  ap- 
pearance, and  stammering  exceedingly. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  To  be  again  per- 
mitted to  —  to  —  gaze  —  at  least,  not  to  gaze,  but  —  I 
don't  exactly  know  what  I  vvas  going  to  say,  but  it's  of 
no  consequence." 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  so  often,"  returned  Florence, 
giving  him  both  her  hands,  with  all  her  innocent  grati- 
tude beaming  in  her  face,  "  that  I  have  no  words  left, 
and  don't  know  how  to  do  it." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  an  awful  voice, 
"  if  it  was  possible  that  you  could,  consistently  with  youi 
angnlic  nature,  curse  me,  you  would  —  if  I  may  be  al- 
lowed to  say  so  —  floor  me  infinitely  less,  than  by  these 
undeserved  expressions  of  kindness.  Their  effect  upon 
aie  —  is  —  but,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  abruptly,  "  this  is  a  di- 
gression, and  's  of  no  consequence  at  all." 


200  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

As  tliere  seemed  to  be  no  means  of  replying  to  this 
but  by  tlianking  him  again,  Florence  thanked  him  again. 

"  I  could  wish,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  '*  to  take  this  oppor- 
tunity, Miss  Dombey,  if  I  might,  of  entering  into  a  word 
of  explanation.  I  should  have  had  the  pleasure  of  —  of 
returning  with  Susan  at  an  earlier  period ;  but,  in  the 
first  place,  we  didn't  know  the  name  of  the  relation  to 
whose  house  she  had  gone,  and,  in  the  second,  as  she 
had  left  that  relation's  and  gone  to  another  at  a  distance, 
(  think  that  scarcely  anything  short  of  the  sagacity 
of  the  Chicken,  would  have  found  her  out  in  the  time.'* 

Florence  was  sure  of  it. 

"  This,  however,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  is  not  the  point. 
The  company  of  Susan  has  been,  I  assure  you.  Miss 
Dombey,  a  consolation  and  satisfaction  to  me,  in  my  state 
of  mind,  more  easily  conceived,  than  described.  The 
journey  has  been  its  own  reward.  That,  however,  still, 
is  not  the  point.  IMiss  Dombey,  1  have  before  observed 
that  I  know  I  am  not  what  is  considered  a  quick  person. 
I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that.  I  don't  think  anybody 
could  be  better  acquainted  with  his  own  —  if  it  was  not 
too  strong  an  expression,  I  should  say  with  the  thickness 
of  his  own  —  head  than  myself.  But,  Miss  Dombey,  I 
do,  notwithstanding,  perceive  the  state  of — of  things  — 
with  Lieutenant  Walters.  Whatever  agony  that  state  of 
things  may  have  caused  me  (which  is  of  no  consequence 
at  all),  I  am  bound  to  say,  that  Lieutenant  Walters  is  a 
person  who  appears  to  be  worthy  of  the  blessing  that  lias 
(alien  on  his  —  on  his  brow.  May  he  wear  it  long,  and 
appreciate  it,  as  a  very  different,  and  very  unworthy  in- 
dividual, that  it  is  of  no  consequence  lo  name  would  have 
done!  That  however,  still,  is  not  the  point.  Miss  Dom 
bey,  Captain  Gills  is  a  friend  of  mine ;  and  duidng  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  201 

interval  that  is  now  elapsing,  I  believe  it  would  afford 
Captain  Gills  pleasure  to  see  me  occasionally  coming 
backwards  and  forwards  here.  It  would  aff"ord  me  pleas- 
ure so  to  come.  But  I  cannot  forget  thjit  I  once  com- 
mitted myself,  fatally,  at  the  corner  of  the  S«iuare  at 
Brighton  ;  and  if  my  presence  will  be,  in  the  least  de- 
gree, unpleasant  to  you,  I  only  ask  you  to  name  it  to 
me  now,  and  assure  you  that  I  shall  perfectly  understand 
you.  I  shall  not  consider  it  at  all  unkind,  and  shall  only 
be  too  delighted  and  happy  to  be  honored  with  your  con- 
fidence." 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  returned  Florence,  "  if  you,  who  are  so 
old  and  true  a  friend  of  mine,  were  to  stay  away  from 
this  house  now,  you  would  make  me  very  unhappy.  It 
can  never,  never,  give  me  any  feeling  but  pleasure  to 
see  you." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr  Toots,  taking  out  his  pock- 
et-handkerchief, "  if  I  shed  a  tear,  it  is  a  tear  of  joy. 
It  is  of  no  consequence,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you.  I  may  be  allowed  to  remark,  after  what  you  have 
BO  kindly  said,  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to  neglect  my 
person  any  longer." 

Florence  received  this  intimation  with  the  prettiest 
expression  of  perplexity  possible. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  shall  consider  it 
my  duty  as  a  fellow-creature  generally,  until  I  am 
nlaimed  by  the  silent  tomb,  to  make  the  best  of  myself, 
liid  to  —  to  have  my  boots  as  brightly  polished,  as  —  as 
drcumstances  will  admit  of.  This  is  the  last  time,  Miss 
Dombey,  of  my  intruding  any  observation  of  a  private 
Hid  personal  nature.  I  thank  you  very  much  indeed. 
If  I  am  not,  in  a  general  way,  as  sensible  as  my  friends 
could  wish  rae  to  be,  or  as  I  could  wish  myself,  I  really 


202  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

am,  upon  my  word  and  l\onor,  particularly  sensible  of 
what  is  considerate  and  kind.  I  feel,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
in  an  impassioned  tone,  "  as  if  I  could  express  my  feel* 
ings,  at  the  present  moment,  in  a  most  remarkable  mau> 
ner,  if  —  if — 1  could  only  get  a  start." 

Appearing  not  to  get  it,  after  waiting  a  minute  or  two 
to  see  if  it  would  come,  Mr.  Toots  took  a  hasty  leave, 
and  went  below  to  seek  the  captain,  whom  he  found  in 
the  shop. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  wliat  is  now  to  take 
place  between  us,  takes  place  under  the  sacred  seal 
of  confidence.  It  is  the  sequel.  Captain  Gills,  of  what 
has  taken  place  between  myself  and  Miss  Dombey,  up- 
stairs." 

"  Alow  and  aloft,  eh,  my  lad  ?  "  murmured  the  captain. 

''  Exactly  so,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  whose 
fervor  of  acquiescence  was  greatly  heightened  by  his 
entire  ignorance  of  the  captain's  meaning.  "  Miss  Dom- 
bey, I  believe,  Captain  Gills,  is  to  be  shortly  united  to 
Lieutenant  Walters  ?  " 

"  Why,  ay,  my  lad.  We're  all  shipmets  Iiere,  — 
Wal'r  and  sweetheart  will  be  jined  together  in  the  house 
of  bondage,  as  soon  as  the  askings  is  over,*'  whispered 
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  ear. 

"The  askings.  Captain  Gills!"  repeated  Mr.  Toots. 

"  In  the  church,  down  yonder,"  said  the  captain",  poiilfc> 
ing  his  tlmmb  over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh!    Yes!"  returned  Mr.  Toots. 

"  And  then,"  said  the  captain,  in  his  hoarse  whisper, 
and  tapping  Mr.  Toots  on  the  chest  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  and  falling  from  him  with  a  look  of  infinite  ad- 
miration, "  what  foUers  ?  That  there  pretiy  creetiir, 
as  di'Ucately   brought   up  as  a  foreign  bird,  goes  away 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  203 

apon  the  roaring  main  with  Wal'r  on  a  woyage  to 
China/' 

"  Lord,  Captain  Gills  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Ay  ! "  nodded  the  captain.  "  The  ship  as  took  him 
up,  when  he  was  wrecked  in  the  hurricane  thit  had 
drove  her  clean  out  of  her  course,  was  a  China  trader, 
and  Wal'r  made  the  woyage,  and  got  into  favor,  aboard 
and  ashore  —  being  as  smart  and  good  a  lad  as  ever 
stepped  —  and  so,  the  supercargo  dying  at  Canton,  he 
got  made  (having  acted  as  clerk  atbie),  and  now  he's 
supercargo  aboard  another  ship,  same  owners.  And  so, 
you  see,"  repeated  the  captain,  thoughtfully,  "  the  pretty 
creetur  goes  away  upon  the  I'oaring  main  with  Wal'r,  on 
a  woyage  to  China." 

Mr.  Toots  and  Captain  Cuttle  heaved  a  sigh  in  concert. 

"What  then?"  said  the  captain.  "She  loves  him 
true.  He  loves  her,  true.  Them  as  should  have  loved 
and  fended  of  her,  treated  of  her  like  the  beasts  a» 
perish.  When  she,  cast  out  of  home,  come  here  to  me, 
and  dropped  upon  them  planks,  her  wownded  heart  was 
broke.  I  know  it.  I,  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  see  it.  There's 
nowt  but  true,  kind,  steady  love,  as  can  ever  piece  it  up 
<<gain.  If  so  be  I  didn't  know  that,  and  didn't  know 
Rs  Wal'r  was  her  true  love,  brother,  and  she  his,  I'd 
have  these  here  blue  arms  and  legs  chopped  off,  afore 
I'd  let  her  go.  But  I  do  know  it,  and  what  then? 
Why,  then,  I  say,  Heaven  go  with  'em  both,  and  so  it 
will!     Amen!"' 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  let  me  have  the 
pleasure  of  shaking  hands.  You've  a  way  of  saying 
things,  that  gives  me  an  agreeable  warmth,  all  up  my 
back.  /  say  Amen.  You  are  aware,  Captain  Gillft 
that  I,  too,  have  adored  Miss  Dombey." 


204  DOMBEY    IND  SON. 

'^  Cheer  up ! "  said  the  captain,  laying  his  hand  oo 
Mr.  Toots's  shoulder.  "  Stand  by,  boy  !  " 
.  "  It  is  ray  intention,  Captain  Gills,"  returned  the  spir- 
ited Mr.  Toots,  "  to  cheer  up.  Also  to  stand  by,  as  much 
as  possible.  "When  the  silent  tomb  shall  yawn.  Captain 
Gills,  I  sliall  be  ready  for  burial ;  not  before.  But  not 
being  certain,  just  at  present,  of  my  power  over  myself 
what  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  and  what  I  shall  take  it  as  a 
particular  favor  if  you  will  mention  to  Lieutenant  Wal- 
lers, is  as  follows." 

"  Is  as  foUers,"  echoed  the  captain.  ''  Steady  1 " 
"  Miss  Dombey  being  so  inexpressibly  kind,"  continued 
Mr.  Toots  with  watery  eyes,  "  as  to  say  that  my  presence 
is  the  reverse  of  disagreeable  to  her,  and  you  and  every- 
body here  being  no  less  forbearing  and  tolerant  towards 
one  who  —  who  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  momen- 
tary dejection,  ^^  would  appear  to  have  been  born  bv 
mistake,  I  shall  come  backwards  and  forwai-ds  of  an 
evening,  during  the  short  time  we  can  all  be  together. 
But  what  I  ask  is  this.  If,  at  any  moment,  I  find  that  I 
cannot  endure  the  contemplation  of  Lieutenant  Walters's 
bliss,  and  should  rush  out,  I  hope.  Captain  Gills,  that 
you  and  he  will  both  consider  it  as  my  misfortune  and 
not  my  fault,  or  the  want  of  inward  conflict  That  you'll 
feel  convinced  I  bear  no  malice  to  any  living  creature  — 
least  of  all  to  Lieutenant  Walters  himself —  and  that 
you'll  casually  remark  that  I  have  gone  out  for  a  walk, 
or  probably,  to  see  what  o'clock  it  is  by  the  Royal  Ex- 
change. Captain  Gills,  if  you  could  enter  into  thia 
arrangement,  and  could  answer  for  Lieutenant  Walters, 
it  would  be  a  relief  to  my  feelings  that  I  should  think 
cheap  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  considerable  poition  of  mj 
property." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  205 

"  My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  "  say  no  more.  There 
a'n't  a  color  you  can  run  up,  as  won't  be  made  out,  and 
answered  to,  by  "Wal'r  and  self." 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  my  mind  is  greatly 
relieved.  I  wish  to  preserve  the  good  opinion  of  all 
here.  I  —  I  —  mean  well,  upon  my  honor,  however 
badly  I  may  sliow  it.  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's 
exactly  as  if  Burgess  and  Co.  wished  to  oblige  a  cus- 
tomer with  a  most  extraordinary  pair  of  trousers,  and 
eovld  not  cut  out  what  they  had  in  their  minds." 

With  this  apposite  illustration,  of  which  he  seemed  a 
little  proud,  Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  blessing 
and  departed. 

■-The  honest  captain,  with  his  Heai't's  Delight  in  the 
house,  and  Susan  tending  her,  was  a  beaming  and  a  hap- 
py man.  As  the  days  flew  by,  he  grew  more  beaming 
and  more  happy,  every  day.  After  some  conferences 
with  Susan  (for  whose  wisdom  the  captain  had  a  pro- 
found respect,  and  whose  valiant  precipitation  of  herself 
on  Mrs,  MacStinger  he  could  never  forget),  he  proposed 
to  Florence  that  the  daughter  of  the  elderly  lady  who 
usually  sat  under  the  blue  umbrella  in  Leadenliall  Mar- 
ket, should,  for  prudential  reasons  and  considerations  of 
privacy,  be  superseded  in  the  temporary  discharge  of  the 
household  duties,  by  some  one  who  was  not  unknown  to 
them,  and  in  whom  they  could  safely  confide.  Susan 
being  present,  then  named,  in  furtherance  of  a  sugges- 
tion she  had  previously  offered  to  the  captain;  Mra.  Rich- 
ards. Florence  brightened  at  the  name.  And  Susan, 
setting  off  that  very  afternoon  to  the  Toodle  domicile,  to 
round  Mrs.  Richards,  returned  in  triumph  the  same 
evening,  accompanied  by  the  identical  rosy-cheeked, 
fcpple-faced  Polly,  whose  demonstrations,  when  brought 


roe  DOMBEir  and  son. 

into  Florence's   presence,  were   Lardly  less  aii'ectionate 
than  those  of  Susan  Nipper  her^^elf. 

This  piece  of  generalship  accomplished  ;  from  which  ' 
the  captain  derived  uncommon  satisfaction,  as  he  did, 
indeed,  from  everything  else  that  was  done,  whatever  it 
happened  to  be  ;  Florence  had  next  to  prepare  Susan  for 
their  approaching  separation.  This  was  a  much  more 
difRcult  task,  as  Miss  Nipper  was  of  a  resolute  dispo- 
sition, and  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  that  she  had 
come  back  never  to  be  parted  from  her  old  mistress 
any  more. 

"  As  to  wages  dear  Miss  Floy,"  she  said,  "  you  would- 
n't hint  and  wrong  me  so  as  think  of  naming  them,  for 
I've  put  money  by  and  wouldn't  sell  my  love  and  duty 
nt  a  time  like  this  even  if  the  Savings'  Bank  and  me 
were  total  strangers  or  the  Banks  were  broke  to  pieces, 
but  you've  never  been  without  me  darling  from  the  time 
your  poor  dear  Ma  was  took  away,  and  though  I'm  noth- 
ing to  be  boasted  of  you're  used  to  me  and  oh  my  own 
dear  mistress  through  so  many  years  don't  think  of  going 
anywhere  without  me,  for  it  mustn't  and  can't  be  ! " 

"  Dear  Susan,  I  am  going  on  a  long,  long  voyage." 

"  Well  Miss  Floy,  and  what  of  that  ?  the  more  you'll 
want  uie.  Lengths  of  voyages  a'n't  an  object  in  my 
eyes,  thank   God ! "  said  the  impetuous   Susan   Nipper. 

"  But  Susan,  I  am  going  with  Walter,  and  I  would  go 
with  Walter  anywhere  —  everywhere!  Walter  is  poor, 
and  I  am  very  poor,  and  I  must  learn,  now,  both  to  help 
myself,  and  help  him." 

"  Deiir  Miss  Floy  ! "  cried  Susan,  bursting  out  afresh, 
3uid  shaking  her  head  violently,  "  it's  nothing  new  to  you 
to  help  yourseli  and  others  too  and  be  the  patientest  and 
truest  of  noble   hearts,  but  let  me  talk  to  Mr.  Walter 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  207 

Gay  and  settle  it  with  him,  for  suffer  you  to  go  away 
acioss  the  worhi  ah.iie  I  Ciiunot,  and  I  won't." 

"Alone,  .Susan?"  retumeil  Florence.  "Alone?  iind 
Walter  taking  me  wiih  him!"  Ali.  what  a  brip|,t, 
amazed,  enraptured  smile  was  on  her  face !  —  He  should 
have  seen  it.  "I  am  sure  you  wi'l  not  speak  to  Wait-r, 
if  1  ask  you  not,"  she  added  tenderly ;  "  and  pray  dou't, 
il;;.r." 

Susan  sobbed,  "'Why  not.  Miss  Floy?" 

"  I>ecau-e,"  said  Florence,  •'  I  am  going  to  be  his  wife, 
to  give  him  up  my  whole  heart,  and  to  live  with  him  and 
die  with  him.  He  might  think,  if  you  said  to  him  what 
you  have  said  to  me,  that  I  am  afraid  of  wha'.  s  before 
me,  or  that  you  have  some  cause* to  be  afraid  for  me. 
Why,  Susan,  dear,  I  love  him  !  " 

Miss  Nijjper  was  so  much  affected  by  the  quiet  fervor 
of  the>e  words,  and  the  simple,  heartfelt,  all-pervading 
eainostness  expressed  in  them,  and  making  the  speaker's 
face  more  beautiful  and  pure  than  ever,  that  she  could 
only  cling  to  her  again,  crying  Was  her  little  mistress 
really,  really  going  to  be  married,  and  pitying,  caressing, 
and  protecting  her,  as  she  had  done  befoi'e. 

But  the  Nipper,  though  susceptible  of  womanly  weak- 
nesses, was  almost  as  capable  of  putting  constraint  upon 
herself  as  of  attacking  the  redoubtable  MacStinger. 
From  that  time,  she  never  returned  to  the  subject,  but 
was  always  cheerful,  active,  bustling,  and  hopeful.  Slie 
did,  indeed,  inform  ]\Ir.  Toots  privately,  thiit  she  was 
nnly  "  keei)ing  up"  for  the  time,  and  that  when  it  was 
all  over,  and  Miss  Dombey  was  gone,  she  might  be  ex- 
fKJCted  to  become  a  spectacle  distressful ;  and  Mr  Toots 
did  also  express  that  it  was  his  case  too,  and  that  they 
would  mingle  their  tears  together ;  b'lt  she  never  other 


208  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

wise  indulged   her  private  feelings  in  the  presence   at 
Florence  or  within  the  precincts  of  the  Jlidshipmai;. 

Limited  and  plain  as  Florence's  wardrobe  was  —  what 
R  contrast  to  that  prepared  for  the  hist  marriage  in 
which  she  had  taken  part !  —  there  was  a  goctl  deal  to 
do  in  getthig  it  ready,  and  Susan  Nipper  worked  awiiy  at 
her  side,  all  day,  with  the  concentrated  zeal  of  fiiiy 
sempstresses.  The  wonderful  contributions  Captain  Cut- 
tle would  have  made  to  this  branch  of  the  outfit,  if 
he  had  been  permitted  —  as  pink  parasols,  tinted  silk 
stockings,  blue  shoes,  and  other  articles  no  less  necessary 
on  shipboai"d  —  would  occupy  some  space  in  the  recital. 
He  was  induced,  however,  by  various  fmudulent  repre 
si'ntations,  to  limit  h\$  contributions  to  a  work-box  and 
dressing-case,  of  each  of  which  he  purchased  the  very 
largest  specimen  that-  could  be  got  for  money.  For  ten 
days  or  a  fortnight  afterwards,  he  generally  sat,  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  day,  gazing  at  these  boxes ; 
divided  between  extreme  admiration  of  them,  and  de- 
jected misgivings  that  they  were  not  gorgeous  enough, 
and  frequently  diving  out  into  the  street  to  purchase 
some  wild  article  that  he  deemed  necessary  to  their  com- 
pleteness. But  his  master-stroke  was,  the  bearing  of 
them  both  off,  suddenly,  one  morning,  and  getting  the 
hvo  words  Florence  Ga.t  engraved  upon  a  brass  heart 
inlaid  over  the  lid  of  each.  After  this,  he  smoked  four 
|:i|M?s  successively  in  the  little  parlor  by  himself,  and  waj 
discovered  chuckling,  at  the  expiration  of  as  many  hours. 

Walter  was  busy  and  away  all  day,  but  came  there 
evfry  morning  early  to  see  Florence,  and  slways  passed 
the  evening  with  her.  Florence  never  left  her  high 
rooms  but  tc  steal  down-stairs  to  wait  for  him  whin  ii 
was  bis  time  to  come,  or,  sheltered  by  his  pivud,  encir 


DOMBEY'AND  SON.  209 

cling  arm,  to  bear  him  company  to  the  door  again,  and 
80in(.'titnes  peep  into  the  street.  In  the  twilight  th«;y 
were  always  together.  Oh  blessed  time !  Oh  wander* 
hig  heart  at  rest !  Oh  deep,  exhaustless,  mighty  well 
of  love,  in  which  so  much  was  sunk ! 

The  cruel  mark  was  on  her  bosotn  yet  It  rose  against 
her  father  with  the  breath  she  drew,  it  lay  between  her 
and  her  lover  when  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  But 
she  forgot  it.  In  tlie  beating  of  that  heart  for  her,  and 
ill  the  beating  of  her  own  for  him,  all  harsher  music  was 
unheard,  all  stern  unloving  hearts  forgotten.  Fiagile 
and  delicate  she  was,  but  with  a  might  of  love  within 
her  that  could,  and  did,  create  a  world  to  fly  to,  and  to 
rest  in,  out  of  his  one  image. 

How  often  did  the  great  house,  and  the  old  days,  come 
before  her  in  the  twilight  time,  when  she  was  sheltered 
by  the  arm,  so  proud,  so  fond,  and,  creeping  closer  to 
him,  shrunk  within  it  at  the  recollection  !  How  often, 
from  remembering  the  night  when  she  went  down  to  that 
room  and  met  the  never-to-be-forgotten  look,  did  she 
raise  her  eyes  to  those  that  watched  her  with  such  loving 
earnestness,  and  weep  with  happiness  in  such  a  refuge ! 
The  more  she  clung  to  it,  the  more  the  dear  dead  child 
<vas  in  her  thoughts ;  but  as  if  the  last  time  she  had  seeu 
her  father,  had  been  when  he  was  sleeping  and  she 
kissed  his  face,  she  always  left  him  so,  and  never,  in  her 
fancy,  passed  that  hour. 

"  Walter,  dear,"  said  Florence,  one  evening,  when  it 
was  almost  dark.  "  Do  you  know  what  I  Iwve  been 
thinking  to-day  ?  " 

"  Thinking  how  the  time  is  flying  on,  and  how  soon 
jre  shall  be  upon  the  sea,  sweet  Florence  ?  " 

"  I   don't    mean    that,   Walter,   though    I    think    of 

VOL     IV.  14 


210  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  too.  E  have  been  thinking  what  a  charge  I  am  to 
you." 

"  A  precious,  sjicred  charge,  dear  heart !  Why  /  think 
!hat  sometimes." 

"  You  are  hiughing,  "Walter.  I  know  that's  much  more 
m  your  thoughts  than  mine.     But  I  mean  a  cost." 

"  A  cost,  my  own  ?  " 

"  In  money,  dear.  All  these  preparations  that  Susan 
and  I  are  so  busy  with — I  have  been  able  to  purchjjse 
very  little  for  myself.  You  were  poor  before.  But 
how  much  poorer  I  shall  make  you,  Walter ! " 

**  And  how  much  richer,  Florence  !  " 

Florence  lauglied,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Besides,"  said  Walter,  "  long  ago  —  belbre  I  went  to 
sea  —  I  had  a  little  purse  presented  to  me,  dearest, 
which  had  money  in  it." 

"  Ah  ! "  returned  Florence  laughing  sorrowfully,  "  very 
little  !  Very  little,  Walter  !  But,  you  must  not  think," 
and  here  she  laid  her  light  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
looked  into  his  face,  "  that  I  regret  to  be  this  burden  o»i 
you.  No,  dear  love,  I  am  glad  of  it^  I  am  happy  in  n. 
I  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise  for  all  the  world  ! " 

"  Nor  I,  indeed,  dear  Florence." 

"Ay !  But  Walter,  you  can  never  feel  it  as  I  do.  I 
am  so  proud  of  you  !  It  makes  my  heart  swell  with 
Buch  delight  to  know  that  those  who  speak  of  you  muM 
Bay  you  married  a  poor  disowned  girl,  who  had  taken 
ehelter  here  ;  who  had  no  other  home,  no  other  friends  ; 
who  had*  nothing  —  nothing!  Oh  Walter,  if  I  could 
have  brought  you  millions,  I  never  could  have  bf  en  so 
happy  for  yoir  sake,  as  I  am ! " 

"  And  you,  dear  Florence  ?  are  you  nothing  .•' "  he 
returned. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  211 

**No,  nothinjT,  "Walter.  Nothing  but  your  wife."  The 
ligli.  hand  ^tole  about  his  neck,  and  the  voice  came 
nearer  —  nearer.  "  I  am  nothing  any  more,  that  is  not 
you.  I  have  no  earthly  hope  any  more,  that  is  not  you. 
r  liave  nothing  dear  to  me  any  more,  that  is  not  you." 

Oh !  well  might  Mr,  Toots  leave  the  little  company 
that  evening,  and  twice  go  out  to  correct  his  watch  by 
the  Royal  Exchange,  and  once  to  keep  an  appoint- 
ment with  a  banker  which  he  suddenly  remembered, 
and  once  to  take  a  little  turn  to  Aldgate  Pump  and 
back ! 

But  before  he  went  upon  these  expeditions,  or  indeed 
before  he  came,  and  before  lights  were  brought,  Walter 
said  : 

"  Florence  love,  the  lading  of  our  ship  is  nearly  fin- 
ished, and  probably  on  the  very  day  of  our  marriage 
she  will  drop  down  the  river.  Shall  we  go  away  that 
morning,  and  stay  in  Kent  until  we  go  on  board  at 
Gravesend  within  a  week?" 

"  If  you  please,  Walter.  I  shall  be  happy  anywhere. 
But " 

*'  Yes,  my  life  ?  " 

"  You  know,"  said  Florence,  "  that  we  shall  have  no 
marriage-party,  and  that  nobody  will  distinguish  us  by 
our  dress  from  other  people.  As  we  leave  the  same 
day,  will  you  —  will  you  take  me  somewhere  that  morn- 
ing Walter  —  early  —  before  we  go  to  church  ?  " 

Walter  seemed  to  understand  her,  as  so  true  a  lover 
so  truly  loved  should,  and  confirmed  his  ready  promise 
with  a  kiss  —  with  more  than  one  perhaps,  or  two  or 
three,  or  five  or  six;  and  in  the  grave,  calm,  peaceful 
evening,  Florence  was  very  happy. 

Then  into  the  quiet  room    came   Susan    Nipper  and 


212  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

i.he  candles  ;  shortly  afterwards,  the  tea,  the  captain,  and 
the  excursive  Mr.  Toots,  who,  as  above  mentioned,  wa? 
frequently  on  the  move  afterwards,  and  passed  but  a 
restless  evening.  This,  however,  was  not  his  habit :  for 
he  generally  got  on  very  well,  by  dint  of  playing  at 
cribbage  with  the  captain  under  the  advice  and  guid 
mice  of  Miss  Nipper,  and  distracting  his  mind  with  the 
calculations  incidental  to  the  game  ;  which  he  found  to  b* 
a  very  effectual  means  of  utterly  confounding  himself. 

The  captain's  visage  on  these  occasions  presented  one 
of  the  finest  examples  of  combination  and  succession  of 
expression  ever  observed.  His  instinctive  delicacy  and 
his  chivalrous  feeling  towards  Florence,  taught  him  that  it 
was  not  a  time  for  any  boisterous  jollity,  or  violent  display 
of  satisfaction.  Certain  floating  reminiscences  of  Lovely 
Peg,  on  the  other  hand,  were  constantly  struggling  for  a 
vent,  and  urging  the  captain  to  commit  himself  by  some 
irreparable  demonstration.  Anon,  his  admiration  of 
Florence  and  Walter  —  well-matched  truly,  and  full  of 
grace  and  interest  in  their  youth,  and  love,  and  good 
looks,  as  they  sat  apart — ^  would  take  such  complete 
possession  of  him,  that  he  would  lay  down  his  cards, 
and  beam  upon  them,  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with 
his  pocket-handkerchief;  until  warned,  perhaps,  by  the 
sudden  rushing  forth  of  Mr.  Toots,  that  he  had  uncon  • 
sciously  been  very  instrumental  indeed,  in  making  that 
gentleman  miserable.  TbiS  reflection  would  make  thf 
captain  profoundly  melancholy,  until  the  return  of  !Mr. 
Toots ;  when  he  would  fall  to  his  cards  agam,  with  many 
side  winks  and  nods,  and  polite  waves  of  his  hook  at 
Miss  Nipper,  importing  that  he  wasn't  going  to  do  :?o  ary 
more.  The  state  that  ensued  on  this,  was,  perhaps,  liis 
best ;  for  then,  endeavoring  to  discharge  all  expre&.^ii»D 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  218 

from  his  face,  he  would  sit  staring  round  the  re  cm,  with 
all  these  expressions  conveyed  into  it  at  once,  and  each 
wrestling  with  the  other.  DeHghted  admiration  of 
Florence  and  Walter  always  overthrew  the  rest,  and 
remained  victorious  and  undisguised,  unless  Mr.  Toots 
made  another  rush  into  the  air,  and  then  the  captain 
would  sit,  like  a  remorseful  culprit,  until  he  came  back 
again,  occasionally  calling  upon  himself,  in  a  low  re- 
proachful voice,  to  "  Stand  by  !  "  or  growling  some 
remonstrance  to  "  Ed'ard  Cuttle  my  lad,"  on  the  want 
of  caution  observable  in  his  behavior. 

One  of  Mr.  Toots's  hardest  trials,  however,  was  of 
his  own  seeking.  On  the  approach  of  the  Sunday  which 
was  to  witness  the  last  of  those  askings  in  church  of 
which  the  captain  had  spoken,  Mr.  Toots  thus  stated  hia 
feelings  to  Susan  Nipper. 

"  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  T  am  drawn  towards  the 
building.  The  woids  which  cut  me  off  from  Miss  Dom- 
bey  forever,  will  strike  upon  my  ears  like  a  knell  you 
know,  but  upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  feel  that  T  must 
hear  them.  Therefore,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  will  you  ac- 
company me  to-morrow,  to  the  sacred  edifice  ?  " 

Miss  Nipper  expressed  her  readiness  to  do  so,  if  that 
would  be  any  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Toots,  but  besought  him 
to  abandon  his  idea  of  going. 

'•  Susan,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  with  much  solemnity, 
«  before  my  whiskers  began  to  be  observed  by  anybody 
but  myself,  I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  While  yet  a  victim 
•')  (he  thraldom  of  Blimber,  I  adored  Miss  Dombey. 
When  I  could  no  longer  be  kept  out  of  my  property,  in 
H  legal  ])oint  of  view,  and  — and  accordingly  came  into 
it  —  T  adored  Miss  Dombey.  The  banns  which  consign 
hftr  to  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  me  to  —  to  Gloom,  you 


214  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  after  hesitating  for  a  strong  ex 
presaion,  '*  may  be  dreadful,  will  be  dreadful ;  but  I  feel 
that  I  should  wish  to  hear  them  spoken.  1  feel  that  I 
should  wish  to  know,  that  the  ground  was  certainly  cut 
from  under  me,  and  that  I  hadn't  a  hope  to  cherish,  or 
a  —  or  a  leg,  in  short,  to  —  to  go  upon." 

Susan  Ni[)per  could  only  commiserate  Mr.  Toots's  un- 
fortunate condition,  and  agree,  under  these  circumst4Jice8^ 
to  accompany  him  ;    which  she  did  next  morning- 

The  church  Walter  had  chosen  for  the  purpose,  wa» 
a  mouldy  old  church  in  a  yard,  hemmed  in  by  a  laby- 
rinth of  back  streets  and  courts,  with  a  little  bmyiug- 
ground  round  it,  and  itself  buried  in  a  kind  of  vault 
formed  by  the  neighboring  houses,  and  paved  with  echo- 
ing stones.  It  was  a  great  dim,  shabby  pile,  with  high 
old  oaken  pews,  among  which  about  a  score  of  people 
lost  themselves  every  Sunday ;  while  the  clergyman's 
voice  dix)wsily  resounded  through  the  emptiness,  and  the 
organ  rumbled  and  rolled  as  if  the  chui'ch  had  got  the 
colic,  for  want  of  a  congregation  to  keep  the  wind  and 
damp  out.  But  so  far  was  this  City  church  from  lan- 
guishing for  the  company  of  other  churches,  that  spires 
were  clustered  round  it,  as  the  masts  of  shipping  clus- 
ter on  the  river.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  count 
them  from  its  steeple-top,  they  were  so  many.  In  al- 
most every  yard  and  blind-place  near,  there  wiis  a 
church.  The  confusion  of  bells  when  Susan  and  Mr. 
Toots  betook  themselves  towards  it  on  the  Sunday  morn- 
ing, wai;  deafening.  There  were  tw^enty  churches  clooC 
together,  clamoring  for  people  to  tome  in. 

The  two  stray  sheep  in  question  were  penned  by  a 
beadle  in  a  commodious  pew,  and,  being  early,  sat  for 
K>me   time   counting  the  congregation,  listening  to  th« 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  215 

lisappointtd  bell  high  up  in  the  towei,  or  looking  at  a 
ihabby  little  old  man  in  the  porch  behind  the  screen, 
who  was  ringing  the  same,  hke  th(*bull  in  Cock  Robin, 
with  his  foot  in  a  stirrup.  Mr.  Toots,  after  a  lengthened 
survey  of  the  large  books  on  the  reading-desk,  whispered 
Miss  Nipper  that  he  wondered  where  the  banns  were 
kept,  but  that  young  lady  merely  shook  her  head  and 
frowned  ;  repelling  for  the  time  all  approaches  of  a  tem- 
[K>ral  nature. 

Mr.  Toots,  however,  appearing  unable  to  keep  his 
thoughts  from  the  banns,  was  evidently  looking  out  for 
them  during  the  whole  preliminary  portion  of  the  service. 
As  the  time  for  reading  them  approached,  the  poor  young 
gentleman  manifested  great  anxiety  and  trepidation, 
which  was  not  diminished  by  the  unexpected  apparition 
of  the  captain  in  the  front  row  of  the  gallery.  When 
the  clerk  handed  up  a  list  to  the  clergyman,  Mr.  Toot>, 
being  then  seated,  held  on  by  the  seat  of  the  pew ;  but 
when  the  names  of  AValter  Gay  and  Florence  Dombey 
were  read  aloud  as  being  in  the  third  and  last  stage  of 
that  association,  he  was  so  entirely  conquered  by  his 
feelings  as  to  rush  from  the  church  without  his  hat, 
followed  by  the  beadle  and  pew-opener,  and  two  gentle- 
men of  the  medical  profession,  who  hapi)en('d  to  be  pres- 
ent ;  of  whom  the  first-named  presently  returned  for  that 
ailicle,  informing  Miss  Nipper  in  a  whisper  that  she  was 
not  lo  make  herself  uneasy  about  the  gentleman,  as  the 
gendeman  said  his  indisposition  was  of  no  consequence. 

Miss  Nipper,  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  that  integi-.il 
portion  of  Europe  which  lost  itself  weekly  among  tho 
high-backed  pews,  were  upon  her,  would  have  been  suf- 
ficiently embarrassed  by  this  incident,  though  it  had 
.erminated   here  ;    the  more   so,  as  the  captain    'iL.  tli6 


216  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

front  row  of  the  gallery,  was  in  a  state  of  unmitigated 
consciousness  which  could  hardly  fail  to  express  to  tlie 
pongregation  that  h?  had  some  mysterious  connection 
with  it.  But  the  extreme  restlessness  of  Mr.  Toots  pain- 
fully increased  and  protracted  the  delicacy  of  her  situa* 
lion.  That  young  gentleman,  incapable,  in  his  state  of 
mind,  of  remaining  alone  in  the  chureh-yard,  a  prey  to 
solilnry  meditation,  and  also  desirous,  no  doubt,  of  tta- 
tifying  his  respect  for  the  offices  he  had  in  some  meaa* 
are  interrupted,  suddenly  returned  —  not  coming  back 
to  the  pew,  but  stationing  himself  on  a  free-seat  in  the 
aisle,  between  two  elderly  females  who  were  in  the  habit 
of  receiving  their  portion  of  a  weekly  dole  of  bread  then 
set  forth  on  a  shelf  in  the  porch.  In  this  conjunction 
Mr.  Toots  remained,  greatly  disturbing  the  congregation, 
who  felt  it  impossible  to  avoid  looking  at  him,  until  his 
feelings  overcame  him  again,  when  he  departed  silently 
and  suddenly.  Not  venturing  to  trust  himself  in  the 
chui-ch  any  more,  and  yet  wishing  to  have  some  social 
participation  in  what  was  going  on  there,  Mr.  Toots  was, 
after  this,  seen  from  time  to  time,  looking  in,  with  a 
lorn  aspect,  at  one  or  other  of  the  windows;  and  as 
there  were  several  windows  accessible  to  him  from  with- 
out, and  as  his  restlessness  was  very  great,  it  not  only 
became  difficult  to  conceive  at  which  window  he  would 
appear  next,  but  likewise  became  necessary,  as  it  were, 
for  the  whole  congregation  to  speculate  upon  the  chances 
of  the  diffisrent  windows,  during  the  comparative  leisure 
aflbrdeJ  them  by  the  sermon.  Mr.  Toots's  movements 
in  the  church-yard  were  so  eccentric,  that  he  seemed 
generally  to  defeat  all  calculation,  and  to  appear,  like 
the  conjurer's  figure,  where  he  was  least  expected ;  and 
(he  efiect  of  these  mysterious  presentations  was  muob 


DOM  JET  AND  SON.  217 

Increased  by  its  being  difficult  to  him  to  see  in,  and 
easy  to  everybody  else  to  see  out :  which  occasioned  his 
remaining,  every  time,  longer  than  might  have  been 
expected,  with  his  face  close  to  the  glas?,  until  he  all 
Bt  once  became  aware  that  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  and 
vanished. 

These  proceedings  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  the 
strong  individual  consciousness  of  them  that  was  cxhib< 
ited  by  the  captain,  rendered  Miss  Nipper's  position  so 
responsible  a  one,  that  she  was  mightily  relieved  by  the 
conclusion  of  the  service ;  and  was  hardly  so  affable  to 
Mr.  Toots  as  usual,  when  he  informed  her  and  the  cap- 
tain, on  the  way  back,  that  now  he  was  sure  he  had  no 
hope,  you  know,  he  felt  more  comfortable  —  at  least  not 
exactly  more  comfortable,  but  more  comfortably  and 
.completely  miserable. 

Swiftly  now,  indeed,  the  time  flew  by,  until  it  was  the 
evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  the  marriage.  They 
were  all  assembled  in  the  upper  room  at  the  Midship- 
man's, and  had  no  fear  of  interruption  ;  for  there  were 
no  lodgers  in  the  house  now,  and  the  Midshipman  had  it 
all  to  himself.  They  were  grave  and  quiet  in  the  pros- 
pect of  to-morrow,  but  moderately  cheerful  too.  Flor- 
ence, with  Walter  close  beside  her,  was  finishing  a  little 
piece  of  work  intended  as  a  parting  gift  to  the  captain 
The  captain  was  playing  cribbage  with  Mr.  Toots.  BIr. 
Toots  was  taking  counsel  as  to  his  hand  of  Susan  Nip- 
per. Miss  Nipper  was  giving  it,  with  all  due  secrecy 
and  circumspection.  Diogenes  was  listening,  and  occa- 
sionally breaking  out  into  a  gruff,  half-smothered  frag' 
ment  of  a  bark,  of  which  he  afterwards  seemed  half 
nshamed,  as  if  he  doubted  having  any  reason  for  it. 

"  Steady,   steady ! "    said    the    captain   to   Diogenes, 


218  POMBET  AND  SON. 

■'  what's  amiss  with  you  ?     You  don't  seem  easy  in  your 
mind  to-night,  my  boy  !" 

Diogenes  wagged  his  tail,  but  pricked  up  his  ears  im- 
mediately afterwards,  and  gave  utterance  to  another 
fragment  of  a  bark  ;  for  which  he  apologized  to  the  cap- 
lain,  l)y  again  wagging  his  tail. 

"  It's  my  opinion,  Di,"  said  the  captain,  looking 
thoughtfully  at  his  cards,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  hia 
hook,  "as  you  have  your  doubts  of  Mrs.  Richards; 
but  if  you're  the  animal  I  take  you  to  be,  you'll  think 
better  o'  that ;  for  her  looks  is  her  commission.  Now, 
brother : "  to  Mr.  Toots :  "  if  so  be  as  you're  ready, 
heave  ahead." 

The  captain  spoke  with  all  composure  and  attention 
to  the  game,  but  suddenly  his  cards  dropped  out  of  his 
hand,  his  mouth  and  eyes  opened  wide,  his  legs  drev^ 
themselves  up  and  stuck  out  in  front  of  his  chair,  and  he 
sat  staring  at  the  door  with  blank  amazement.  Looking 
round  upon  the  company,  and  seeing  that  none  of  them 
observed  him  or  the  cause  of  his  astonishment,  the  cap- 
tain recovered  himself  with  a  great  gasp,  struck  the 
table  a  tremendous  blow,  cried  in  a  stentorian  roar, 
"  Sol  Gills  ahoy ! "  and  tumbled  into  the  arms  of  a 
weather-beaten  pea-coat  that  had  come  with  Polly  into 
the  room. 

In  another  moment,  Walter  was  in  the  arms  of  the 
weather-beaten  pea-coat.  In  another  moment,  Florence 
WRS  in  the  arms  of  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat.  In  an 
other  moment,  Captain  Cuttle  had  embraced  Mrs.  Rich- 
arls  and  Miss  Nipper,  and  was  violently  shaking  hands 
with  Mr.  Toots,  exclaiming,  as  he  waved  his  hook  above 
Dis  head,  "  Hooroar,  my  lad,  hooroar!"  To  which  Mr. 
Toots,  wholly  at  a  loss  to  account  for  these  proceedings. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  21 S 

replied  with  great  politeness,  "  Certainly,  Captain  Gills, 
wrhatever  you  think  proper  !  " 

The  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  and  a  no  less  weather- 
beaten  cap  and  comforter  belonging  to  it,  turned  from 
the  captain  and  from  Florence  back  to  Walter,  and 
sounds  came  from  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  cap,  and 
comforter,  as  of  an  old  man  sobbing  underneath  them  5 
while  the  shaggy  sleeves  clasped  Walter  tight.  During 
this  pause,  there  was  an  universal  silence,  and  the  cap- 
tain polished  his  nose  with  great  diligence.  But  when 
the  pea-coat,  cap,  and  comforter  lifted  themselves  up 
again,  Florence  gently  moved  towards  them  ;  and  she 
and  Walter  taking  them  off,  disclosed  the  old  Instru- 
ment-maker, a  little  thinner  and  more  careworn  than  of 
old,  in  his  old  Welsh  wig  and  his  old  coffee-colored  coat 
and  basket  buttons,  with  his  old  inflillible  chronometer 
ticking  away  in  his  pocket. 

"  Chock  full  o'  science,"  said  the  radiant  captain,  "  as 
ever  he  was  !  Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills,  what  have  you  been 
up  to,  for  this  many  a  long  day,  my  ould  boy  ?" 

"  I'm  half  blind,  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  almost 
deaf  and  dumb  with  joy." 

•'  His  wery  woice,"  said  the  captain,  looking  round 
with  an  exultation  to  which  even  his  face  could  hardly 
render  justice  —  "  his  wery  woice  as  chock  full  o'  science 
as  ever  it  was  !  Sol  Gills,  lay  to,  my  lad,  upon  your 
)wn  wines  and  fig-trees,  like  a  taut  ould  patriaick  as 
you  are,  and  overhaul  them  there  adwentures  o'  yonrn, 
in  your  own  formilior  woice.  'Tis  the  woice,"  said  the 
raptain,  impressively,  and  announcing  a  quotation  with 
\m  hook,  "of  the  sluggard,  I  heerd  him  com-plain.  you 
have  woke  me  too  soon,  I  must  slumber  again.  Scattfi 
ai8  ene-mies,  and  make  'era  fall  1 " 


220  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  captain  sat  down  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  itad 
napi)ily  expressed  the  feeling  of  everybody  present,  and 
immediately  rose  again  tQ' present  Mr.  Toots,  who  was 
much  disconcerted  by  the  arrival  of  anybody,  appearing 
to  prefer  a  claim  to  the  name  of  Gills. 

•'  Although,"  stammered  Mr  Toots,  "  I  had  not  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  sir,  before  you  were  — 
you  were  "  — 

"  Lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,"  suggested  the  cap- 
tain, in  a  low  voice. 

"  Exactly  so.  Captain  Gills ! "  assented  Mr.  Toots. 
**  Although  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance, 
Mr.  —  Mr.  Sols,"  said  Toots,  hitting  on  that  name  in  the 
inspiration  of  a  bright  idea,  "before  that  happened,  I 
have  the  greatest  pleasure,  I  assure  you,  in  —  you  know, 
in  knowing  you.  1  hope,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  you're 
as  well  as  can  be  expected." 

With  these  courteous  words,  Mr.  Toots  sat  down 
blushing  and  chuckling. 

The  old  Instrument-maker,  seated  in  a  corner  between 
Walter  and  Florence,  and  nodding  at  Polly,  who  was  look- 
ing on,  all  smiles  and  delight,  answered  the  captain  thus : 

"Ned  Cuttle,  my  dear  boy,  although  I  have  heard 
Bomething  of  the  changes  of  events  here,  from  my 
pleasant  friend  there  —  what  a  pleasant  face  she  has  to 
be  sure,  to  welcome  a  wanderer  home ! "  said  the  old 
man,  breaking  off,  and  rubbing  his  hands  in  his  old 
dreamy  way. 

"  Hear  him!"  cried  the  captain  gravely.  "'Tis  woman 
as  seduces  all  mankind.  For  which,"  aside  to  Mr. 
roots,  "yiu'll  overhaul  your  Adam  and  Eve,  brother." 

"  I  shall  make  a  point  of  doing  so,  Captain  Gills,"  said 
Mr.  Toots. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  22j 

**  Although  I  have  heard  something  of  the  changes  of 
events  from  her,"  resumed  the  Instrument-maker,  taking 
his  old  spectacles  from  his  pocket,  and  putting  them  on 
l»is  forehead  in  his  old  manner,  "  they  are  so  great  and 
unexpected,  and  I  am  so  overpowered  by  the  sight  of 
my  dear  boy,  and  by  the  "  —  glancing  at  the  downcast 
eye?  of  Florence,  and  not  attempting  to  finish  the  sen- 
tence—  "that  I  —  I  can't  say  much  to-night.  But  my 
dear  Ned  Cuttle,  why  didn't  you  write  ?  " 

The  astonishment  depicted  in  the  captain's  features 
positively  frightened  Mr.  Toots,  whose  eyes  were  quite 
fixed  by  it,  so  that  he  could  not  withdraw  them  from  his 
face. 

«  Write  !  "  echoed  the  captain.     "  Write,  Sol  Gills  ! " 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  '•  either  to  Barbadoes,  or 
Jamaica,  or  Demerara.     That  was  what  I  asked." 

"  What  you  asked,  Sol  Gills ! "  repeated  the  captain. 

*'  Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Don't  you  know,  Ned  ?  Sure 
you  have  not  forgotten  ?     Every  time  I  wrote  to  you." 

The  captain  took  off  his  glazed  hat,  hung  it  on  his 
hook,  and  smoothing  his  hair  from  behind  with  his  hand, 
sat  gazing  at  the  group  around  him  :  a  perfect  image  of 
wondering  resignation. 

"  You  don^  appear  to  understand  me,  Ned  ! "  observed 
eld  Sol. 

«  Sol  Gills,"  returned  the  captain,  after  staring  at  him 
and  the  rest  for  a  long  time,  without  speaking,  "  I'm  gone 
about  and  adrift.  Pay  out  a  word  or  two  respecting 
them  adwenturs,  will  you  !  Can't  I  bring  up,  nohows  ? 
nohows?"  said  the  captain,  ruminating,  and  staring  all 
round. 

«  You  know,  Ned,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "  why  I  left  here. 
CHd  you  oj)en  my  packet,  Ned  ?  " 


222  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Why,  ay,  ay,"  said  the  captain.  "  To  be  sure,  1 
opened  the  packet." 

"  And  read  it  ?  "  said  the  old  man. 

''  And  read  it,"  answered  the  captain,  eying  him  at* 
tentively,  and  proceeding  to  quote  it  from  memory. 
" '  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle,  when  I  left  home  for  the  West 
Indies  in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear '  — 
There  he  sits !  There's  Wal'r ! "  said  the  captain,  a9 
if  he  were  relieved  by  getting  hold  of  anything  tl^t 
was  real  and  indisputable. 

"  Well,  Ned,  Now  attend  a  moment ! "  said  the  old 
man.     "  When  I  wrote  first  —  that  was  from  Barbadoes 

—  I  said  that  though  you  would  receive  that  letter  long 
before  the  year  was  out,  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would 
open  the  packet,  as  it  explained  the  reason  of  my  going 
away.  Very  good,  Ned.  When  I  wrote  the  second,  third, 
and  perhaps  the  fourth  times  —  that  was  from  Jamaica 

—  I  said  I  was  in  just  the  same  state,  couldn't  rest,  and 
couldn't  come  away  from  that  part  of  the  world,  without 
knowing  that  my  boy  was  lost  or  saved.  When  I  wrote 
next  —  that,  I  think,  was  from  Demerara,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  That  he  thinks  was  from  Demerara,  wam't  it !  "  said 
the  captain,  looking  hopelessly  round. 

—  "I  said,"  proceeded  old  Sol,  "  that  ftill  there  was 
no  certain  information  got  yet.  That  I  found  many  cap- 
tains and  others,  in  that  part  of  the  world,  who  >ad  known 
me  for  years,  and  who  assisted  me  with  a  passage  15ero 
and  there,  and  for  whom  I  was  able,  now  and  then,  to  do 
a  little  in  return,  in  my  own  craft.  That  every  one  was 
BOiTy  for  me,  and  seemed  to  take  a  sort  of  interest  in  my 
wanderings ;  and  that  I  began  to  think  it  would  be  my 
fate  to  cruise  about  in  search  of  tidings  of  my  boy  ur;il  1 
died." 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  223 

"  Began  to  think  as  how  he  was  a  scientific  flying 
Dutchman  !  "  said  the  captain,  as  before,  and  with  great 
wriousness. 

"  But  when  the  news  come  one  day,  Ned,  —  that  was 
lo  Barbadoes,  after  I  got  back  there,  —  tiiat  a  China 
trader  home'ard  bound  had  been  spoke,  that  had  my  boy 
8l)oard,  then,  Ned,  I  took  passage  in  the  next  ship  and 
came  home  ;  and  arrived  at  home  to-night  to  find  it  true, 
thank  God ! "  said  the  old  man,  devoutly. 

The  captain,  after  bowing  his  head  with  great  rever- 
ence, stared  all  round  the  circle,  beginning  with  Mr. 
Toots,  and  ending  with  the  Ipstrument-maker :  then 
gravely  said : 

"  Sol  Gills  !  The  observatio  i  as  I'm  a-going  to  make 
is  calc'lated  to  blow  every  stitch  of  sail  as  you  can  carry, 
clean  out  of  the  bolt-ropes,  and  bring  you  on  your  beam 
ends  with  a  lurch.  Not  one  of  them  letters  was  ever 
delivered  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle.  Not  one  o'  them  letters," 
repeated  the  captain,  to  make  his  declaration  the  more 
golemn  and  impressive,  "  was  ever  delivered  unto  Ed'ard 
Cuttle,  mariner,  of  England,  as  lives  at  home  at  ease,  and 
doth  improve  each  shining  hour!" 

"  And  posted  by  my  own  hand  !  And  directed  by 
my  own  hand.  Number  nine.  Brig-place  !  "  exclaimed 
old  Sol. 

The  color  all  went  out  of  the  captain's  face,  and  all 
came  back  again  in  a  glow. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sol  Gills,  my  friend,  by  Numbw 
nine,  Brig-place  !  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Mean  ?  Your  lodgings,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man. 
"*  Mrs.  What's-her-name !  I  shall  forget  my  own  name 
»ext,  but  I  am  behind  the  present  time  —  I  always  was, 
fou  recollef  t  —  and  very  much  confused.     Mrs."  — 


224  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

"  Sol  Gills ! "  said  the  captain,  as  if  he  were  putting 
Ihe  most  improbable  case  in  the  world,  "  it  a'n't  the 
Dame  of  MacStinger  as  you're  a-trying  to  remember  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is ! "  exclaimed  the  Instruraent-makor. 
•*  To  be  sure  Ned.     Mrs.  MacStinger !  " 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  eyes  were  now  as  wide  open  as 
thsy  could  be,  and  the  knobs  upon  whose  face  were  per- 
fectly luminous,  gave  a  long  shrill  whistle  of  a  most 
melancholy  sound,  and  stood  gazing  at  everybody  in  a 
state  of  speechlessness. 

"  Overhaul  that  there  again,  Sol  Gills,  will  you  be  so 
kind  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  All  these  letters,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  beating  time 
with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  upon  the  palm  of  his 
left,  with  a  steadiness  and  distinctness  that  might  have 
done  honor,  even  to  the  infallible  chronometer  in  his 
pocket,  "  I  posted  with  ray  own  hand,  and  directed  with 
my  own  hand,  to  Captain  Cuttle,  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's, 
Number  nine.  Brig-place." 

The  captain  took  his  glazed  hat  off  his  hook,  looked 
into  it,  put  it  on,  and  sat  down. 

**  Why,  friends  all,"  said  the  captain,  staring  round 
in  the  last  state  of  discomfiture,  "  I  cut  and  run  from 
there ! " 

"  And  no  one  knew  where  you  were  gone,  Captaic 
Cuttle  ?  "  cried  Walter,  hastily. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  shaking 
his  head,  "  she'd  never  have  allowed  o'  my  coming  to 
take  charge  o'  this  here  property.  Nothing  could  he 
done  but  cat  and  run.  Lord  love  you,  Wal'r ! "  said 
the  captain,  "  you've  only  seen  her  in  a  calm  !  But  see 
her  when  h^r  angry  passions  ri?e  —  and  make  a  note 
do!" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON,  22a 

"  Td  give  it  her  ! "  remarked  the  Nipper,  foftlj. 

"  Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear  ?  "  returned  the 
captain,  with  feeble  admiration.  *'  Well,  my  dear,  it 
does  you  credit.  But  there  a'n't  no  wild  animd  1 
wouldn't  sooner  face  myself.  I  only  got  my  chest  away 
by  means  of  a  friend  as  nobody's  a  match  for.  It  was  no 
good  sending  any  letter  there.  She  wouldn't  take  in  any 
letter,  bless  you,"  said  the  captain,  "  under  them  circum- 
stances !  Why,  you  could  hardly  make  it  worth  a  man's 
while  to  be  the  postman  ! " 

"  Then  it's  pretty  clear.  Captain  Cuttle,  that  all  of  us, 
and  you  and  Uncle  Sol  especially,"  said  Walter,  "  may 
thank  Mrs.  MacStinger  for  no  small  anxiety." 

The  general  obligation  in  this  wise  to  tiie  determined 
relict  of  the  late  Mr.  MacStinger,  was  so  apparent,  that 
the  captain  did  not  contest  the  point ;  but  being  in  some 
measure  ashamed  of  his  position,  though  nobody  dwelt 
upon  the  subject,  and  Walter  especially  avoided  it,  re- 
membering the  last  conversation  he  and  the  captain  had 
held  together  respecting  it,  he  remained  under  a  cloud 
for  nearly  five  minutes  —  an  extraordinary  period  for 
him  —  when  that  sun,  his  face,  broke  out  once  more, 
Bhining  on  all  beholders  with  extraoi'dinary  brilliancy ; 
and  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  shaking  hands  with  everybody 
over  and  over  again. 

At  an  early  hour,  but  not  before  Uncle  Sol  and  Wal- 
ter had  questioned  each  other  at  some  length  about  their 
voyages  and  dangers,  they  all,  except  Walter,  vacated 
Florence's  room,  and  went  down  to  the  parlor.  Here 
iiey  were  soon  afterwards  joined  by  Walter,  who  told 
.hem  Florence  was  a  little  sorrowful  and  heavy-hearted, 
and  had  gone  to  bed.  Though  they  could  not  have  dis- 
t'iry>ed  her  with  their  voices  down  there,  they  al!  spoke 

VOL     IV  16 


226  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

in  a  whisper  after  this :  and  each,  in  his  different  way, 
felt  very  lovingly  and  gently  towards  Walter's  fair  young 
bride ;  and  a  long  explanation  there  was  of  everything 
relating  to  her,  for  the  satisfaction  of  Uncle  Sol ;  and 
very  sensible  Mr.  Toots  was  of  the  deliciicy  with  which 
Walter  made  his  name  and  services  important,  and  his 
presence  necessary  to  their  little  council. 

"  IVIr.  Toots,"  said  Walter,  on  parting  with  him  at  the 
bouse  door,  "  we  shall  see  each  other  to-morrow  morn> 


\ns 


"  Lieutenant  Walters,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  grasping 
his  hand  fervently,  "  I  shall  certainly  be  present." 

"  This  is  the  last  night  we  shall  meet  for  a  long  time 
—  the  last  night  we  may  ever  meet,"  said  Walter. 
"  Such  a  noble  heart  as  yours,  must  feel,  I  think,  when 
another  heart  is  bound  to  it.  I  hope  you  know  that  I 
am  very  grateful  to  you  ?  " 

"  Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  quite  touched,  "  I 
should  be  glad  to  feel  that   you  had  reason  to   be  so." 

"  Florence,"  said  Walter,  '*  on  this  last  night  of  her 
bearing  her  own  name,  has  made  me  promise  —  it  was 
only  just  now,  when  you  left  us  together  —  that  I  would 
tell  you,  with  her  dear  love  "  — 

Mr.  Toots  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door-post,  and  hig 
eyes  upon  his  hand. 

—  "  with  her  dear  love,"  said  Walter,  "  that  she  can 
never  have  a  friend  whom  she  will  value  above  you- 
That  the  recollection  of  yowr  true  consideration  for  her 
always,  can  never  be  forgotten  by  her.  That  she  re- 
members you  in  her  prayers  to-night,  and  hopes  that  you 
will  think  of  her  when  she  is  far  away.  Shall  I  say  any- 
ttiing  for  you  ?  " 

"  Say,  Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  indistinctly,  "  thai 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  227 

I  shall  think  of  her  every  day,  but  never  without  feeling 
happy  to  know  that  she  is  married  to  the  man  she  loves 
and  wlio  loves  her.  Say,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  sure 
her  husband  deserves  her  —  even  her!  —  and  that  T  am 
glad  of  her  choice." 

Mr.  Toots  got  more  distinct  as  he  came  to  these  last 
words,  and  raising  his  eyes  from  the  door-post,  said  them 
stoutly.  He  then  shook  Walter's  hand  again  with  a 
fervor  that  Walter  was  not  slow  to  return,  and  started 
homeward. 

Mr.  Toots  was  accompanied  by  the  Chicken,  whom  he 
had  of  late  brought  with  him  eveiy  evening,  and  left  in 
the  shop,  with  an  idea  that  unforeseen  circumstances 
might  arise  from  without,  in  which  the  prowess  of  that 
distinguished  character  would  be  of  service  to  the  Mid- 
shipman. The  Chicken  did  not  appear  to  be  in  a  par- 
ticularly good-humor  on  this  occasion.  Either  the  gas- 
lamps  were  treacherous,  or  he  cocked  his  eye  in  a 
hideous  manner,  and  likewise  distorted  his  nose,  when 
Mr.  Toots,  crossing  the  road,  looked  back  over  his  shoul- 
der at  the  room  where  Florence  slept.  On  the  road 
home,  he  was  more  demonstrative  of  aggressive  inten- 
tions against  the  other  foot-passengers,  than  comported 
with  a  professor  of  the  peaceful  art  of  self-defence.  Ar« 
rived  at  home,  instead  of  leaving  Mr.  Toots  in  his  apai*t- 
nients  when  he  had  escorted  him  thither,  he  remained 
before  him  weighing  his  white  hat  in  both  hands  by  the 
brim,  and  twitching  his  head  and  nose  (both  of  which 
had  been  many  times  broken,  and  but  indifferently  re- 
.mired),  with  an  air  of  decided  disrespect. 

His  patron  being  much  engaged  with  his  own  thoughts, 
31(1  not  observe  this  for  some  time,  nor  indeed  until  the 
'Jliicken,  determined   not   to  be  overlooked,  had  mad« 


228  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

divers  click!  Dg  sounds  with  his  tongue  and  teeth,  to  at^ 
tract  attention. 

"  Now  master,"  said  the  Chicken,  doggedly,  when  he, 
at  length,  caught  Mr.  Toots's  eye,  "  I  want  to  know 
whether  this  here  gammon  is  to  finish  it,  or  whether 
you're  a-going  in  to  win  ?  " 

"  Chicken,"   returned  Mr.  Toots,  '*  explain  yourfelf." 

"Why  then,  here's  all  about  it,  master,"  said  the 
Chicken.  "I  a'n't  a  cove  to  chuck  a  word  away. 
Here's  wot  it  is.     Are  any  on  'era  to  be  doubled  up?* 

When  the  Chicken  put  this  question  he  dropped  hia 
bat,  made  a  dodge  and  a  feint  with  his  left  hand,  hit  a 
supposed  enemy  a  violent  blow  with  his  right,  shook  hia 
head  smartly,  and  recovered  himself. 

"  Come  master,"  said  the  Chicken.  "  Is  it  to  be  gam- 
mon or  pluck  ?     Which  ?  " 

"  Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  your  expressiona 
are  coarse,  and  your  meaning  is  obscure." 

"Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what,  master,"  said  the 
Chicken.     "This  is  where  it  is.     It's  mean." 

"What  is  mean.  Chicken?"  asked  Mr.  Toots. 

"  It  is,"  said  the  Chicken,  with  a  frightful  corrugation 
of  his  broken  nose.  "  There !  Now,  master  I  Wot ! 
Wen  you  could  go  and  blow  on  this  here  match  to  the 
Btiff  'un  ;  "  by  which  depreciatory  appellation  it  has  been 
since  supposed  that  the  Game  One  intended  to  signify 
Mr.  Dombey ;  "  and  when  you  could  knock  the  winner 
and  all  the  kit  of  'em  dead  out  of  wind  and  time,  are  you 
going  to  give*  in  ?  To  give  in  ?  "  said  the  Chicken,  with 
oontempiujus  emphasis.     "  Wy,  it's  mean !  " 

"  Chicken,'  said  Mr.  Toots,  severely,  " you're  a  per- 
fiect  vulture  !     Your  sentiments  are  atrocious." 

"My  sentiment;^  is  game  and  fancy,  master,"  returned 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  229 

the  Cliiiken.  "That's  wot  my  sentiments  Is.  I  cau't 
abear  a  Uieanness.  I'm  afore  the  public,  I'm  to  be  heard 
on  at  the  bar  of  the  Little  Helephant,  and  no  Gov'ner  o' 
mine  mustn't  go  and  do  what's  mean.  Wy,  it's  mean," 
Baid  the  Chicken,  with  increased  expression.  "That's 
where  it  is.     It's  mean." 

"  Chicken  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  you  disgust  me.** 

"Master,"  returned  the  Chicken,  putting  on  his  hat* 
"  thers's  a  pair  on  us,  then.  Come !  Here's  a  offer  I 
You've  spoke  to  me  more  than  once't  or  twice't  about 
the  public  line.  Never  mind !  Give  me  a  fi'typunnote 
to-morrow,  and  let  me  go." 

"  Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  after  the  odious  sen- 
timents you  have  expressed,  I  shall  be  glad  to  part  <» 
such  terms." 

"  Done  then,"  said  the  Chicken.  "  It's  a  bargin.  Thia 
here  conduct  of  yourn,  won't  suit  my  book,  master.  Wy 
I's  mean,"  said  the  Chicken ;  who  seemed  equally  un- 
able to  get  beyond  that  point,  and  to  stop  short  of  it. 
"  That's  were  it  is  !  it's  mean  !  " 

So  Mr.  Toots  and  the  Chicken  agreed  to  part  on  this 
incompatibility  of  moral  perception ;  and  Mr.  Toots 
lying  down  to  sleep,  dreamed  happily  of  Florence,  who 
h&A.  thouglit  of  him  as  her  friend  upon  the  last  night  <rf 
her  maiden  life,  and  sent  him  her  dear  love. 


830  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER   LVIL 


ANOTHER   WEDDING. 


Mk.  Sowxds  the  beadle,  and  Mrs.  Miff  the  peW' 
opener,  are  early  at  their"  posts  in  the  fine  church  whero 
Mr.  Dotnbey  was  married.  A  yellow-faced  old  gentle- 
man from  India,  is  going  to  take  unto  himself  a  young  wife 
this  morning,  and  six  carriages  full  of  company  are  ex- 
pected, and  INIrs.  Miff  has  been  informed  that  the  yellow- 
faced  old  gentleman  could  pave  the  road  to  church  with 
diamonds  and  hardly  miss  them. 

The  nuptial  benediction  is  to  be  a  superior  one,  pro- 
ceeding from  a  very  reverend,  a  dean,  and  the  lady  is  to 
be  given  away,  as  an  extraordinary  present,  by  somebody 
who  comes  express  from  the  Horse  Guards. 

Mrs.  Miff  is  more  intolerant  of  common  people  this 
morning,  than  she  generally  is  ;  and  she  has  always 
strong  opinions  on  that  subject,  for  it  is  associated  with 
free  sittings.  Mrs.  Miff  is  not  a  student  of  political 
economy  (she  thinks  the  science  is  connected  with  dis- 
eenters ;  "  Baptists  or  Wesleyans,  or  some  o'  them,"  sho 
says),  but  she  can  never  understand  what  business  }  oar 
oommun  folks  Lave  to  be  man-ied.  "  Drat  'em,"  says  Mrs 
Miff,  "  you  read  the  same  things  over  'era  and  instead  of 
wvereigns  get  sixpences  !  " 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  is  more  liberal  than  Mrs.  Miff 
^  but  then  he  is  not  a  pew-opener.     "  It  must  be  done. 


D(JMl{IiY   AND  SON.  '  231 

ma'ain,"  he  says.  "  We  must  jiiarry  em.  We  must 
have  our  national  schools  to  walk  at  the  head  jf,  and  we 
must  have  our  slanding  armies.  We  must  marry  'em, 
ma'am,"  says  Mr.  Sownds,  "  and  keep  the  countiy 
going." 

Mr.  Sownds  is  sitting  on  the  steps  and  Blrs.  Miff  'a 
dusting  in  the  church,  when  a  young  couple,  j)lainly 
dressed,  come  in.  The  mortified  bonnet  of  Mrs.  Miff'  is 
Bharply  turned  towards  them,  for  she  espies  in  this  early 
visit  indications  of  a  runaway  match.  But  they  don't 
want  to  be  married  —  "  Only."  says  the  gentleman,  "  to 
walk  round  the  church."  And  as  he  slips  a  genteel 
compliment  into  the  palm  of  Mrs.  Miff,  her  vinegary 
face  relaxes,  and  her  mortified  boimet  and  her  spare  dry 
figure  dip  and  crackle. 

Mrs.  Miff  resumes  her  dusting  and  plumps  up  her 
cushions  —  for  the  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  is  reported 
to  have  tender  knees  —  but  keeps  her  glazed  pew-open- 
ing eye  on  the  young  couple  who  are  walking  round  the 
church.  "  Ahem,"  coughs  Mrs.  Miff,  whose  cough  is 
drier  than  the  hay  in  any  hassock  in  her  charge,  "  you'll 
come  to  us  one  of  these  mornings,  my  dears,  unless  Tax 
much  mistaken !  " 

They  are  looking  at  a  tablet  on  the  wall,  erected  to 
the  memory  of  some  one  dead.  They  are  a  long  way 
off  from  Mrs.  Miff,  but  Mrs.  Miff  can  see  with  half  an 
lye  how  she  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  how  his  head  is 
bent  down  over  her.  "  Well,  well,"  says  Mrs.  Miff, 
■*you  might  do  worse.     For  you're  a  tidy  pair!" 

There  is  nothing  personal  in  Mrs.  Miff's  remark. 
She  merely  speaks  of  stock  in  trade.  She  is  hardly 
uore  curious  in  couples  than  in  coffins.  She  is  such  a 
ipare,  straight,  dry  old  lady  —  such  a  pew  of  a  woraan 


232  UOMBEY  AND  SON. 

—  Ihiit  you  should  find  as  many  indi vidua,  eyrapathies 
In  a  chip.  Mr.  Sownds,  now,  who  is  fleshy,  and  has 
Bcailet  in  his  coat,  is  of  a  different  temperament.  He 
says,  as  they  stand  upon  the  steps  watching  the  young 
coMple  away,  that  she  has  a  pretty  figure,  hasn't  she,  and 
as  well  as  he  could  see  (for  she  held  her  head  down 
coming  out),  an  uncommon  pretty  face.  "Altogether, 
Mrs.  Miff,"  says  Mr.  Sownds  with  a  relish,  "she  is  what 
you  may  call  a  rosebud." 

Mrs.  Miff  assents  with  a  spare  nod  of  her  mortified 
bonnet;  but  approves  of  this  so  little,  that  she  inwardly 
resolves  she  wouldn't  be  the  wife  of  Mr.  Sownds  for  any 
money  he  could  give  her,  beadle  as  he  is. 

And  what  are  the  young  people  saying  as  they  leave 
the  church,  and  go  out  at  the  gate  ? 

"  Dear  "Walter,  thank  you !  I  can  go  away  now, 
happy." 

"  And  when  we  come  back,  Florence,  we  will  come 
and  see  his  grave  again." 

Floro«)ce  lifts  her  eyes,  so  bright  with  tears,  to  his 
kind  face  ;  and  clasps  her  disengaged  hand  on  that  other 
modest  little  hand  which  clasps  his  arm. 

"  It  is  very  early,  Walter,  and  the  streets  are  almost 
empty  yet.     Let  us  walk." 

"  But  you  will  be  so  tired,  my  love." 

"  Oh  no  !  T  was  very  tired  the  first  time  that  we  ever 
walked  together,  but  I  shall  not  be  so  to-day." 

And  thus  —  not  much  changed  —  she,  as  innocent  and 
tamest-hearted — he,  as  frank,  as  hopeful,  and  more 
proud  of  her  —  Florence  and  Walter,  on  their  bridal 
morning,  walk  through  the  streets  together. 

Not  even  in  that  childish  walk  of  long  ago,  were  they 
BO'' far  removed  from  all  the  worlr'  about  them  as  to-day 


DOBCBEY  AND  SON.  fSS 

The  childish  feet  of  long  ago,  did  not  tread  such  en 
clianled  ground  as  theirs  do  now.  The  confidence  and 
love  of  children  may  be  given  many  times,  and  will 
bpring  up  in  many  places;  but  the  woman's  he^irl  of 
Florence,  with  its  undivided  treasure,  can  be  yielded 
tnly  once,  and  under  slight  or  change,  can  only  droop 
and  die. 

They  take  the  streets  that  are  the  quietest,  and  do  not 
go  near  that  in  which  her  old  home  stands.  It  is  a  fair, 
warm  summer  morning,  and  the  sun  shines  on  them,  as 
they  walk  towards  the  darkening  mist  that  overspreads 
the  city.  Riches  are  uncovering  in  shops  ;  jewels,  gold, 
and  silver  flash  in  the  goldsmiths*  sunny  windows ;  and 
great  houses  cast  a  stately  shade  upon  them  as  they  pass. 
But  through  the  light,  and  through  the  shade,  they  go  on 
lovingly  together,  lost  to  everything  around  ;  thinking  of 
110  other  riches,  and  no  prouder  home,  than  they  have 
now  in  one  another. 

Gradually  they  come  into  the  darker,  narrower  streets, 
where  the  sun,  now  yellow,  and  now  ted,  is  seen  through 
the  mist,  only  at  street  corners,  and  in  small  open  spaces 
where  there  is  a  ti'ee,  or  one  of  the  innumerable  churches, 
or  a  paved  way  and  a  flight  of  steps,  or  a  curious  httle 
patch  of  garden,  or  a  burying-ground,  where  the  few 
tombs  and  tombstones  are  almost  black.  Lovingly  and 
trustfully,  through  all  the  narrow  yards  and  alleys  and 
the  shady  streets,  Florence  goes,  cUnging  to  his  arm,  to 
I '!  his  wife. 

Her  heart  beats  quicker  now,  for  Walter  tells  her  that 
their  church  is  very  near.  They  pass  a  few  gi-eat  stacks 
uf  warehouses,  with  wagons  at  the  doors,  and  busy  oar- 
joen  stopping  up  the  way  —  but  Florence  does  not  see 
or  hoiir  them  —  and  then  the  J»ir  is  quiet,  and  the  day  is 


234  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

darksned,  and  she  is  trembling  in  a  church  which  has  a 
Btrange  smell  like  a  cellar. 

The  shabby  little  old  man,  ringer  of  the  disappointed 
bell,  is  standing  in  the  porch,  and  has  put  his  hat  in  the 
font  —  for  he  is  quite  at  home  there,  being  sexton.  IT© 
ushers  them  into  an  old,  brown,  panelled,  dusty  vestry 
like  a  corner  cupboard  with  the  shelves  taken  out ;  where 
the  wormy  registers  diffuse  a  smell  like  faded  snuff,  which 
has  set  the  tearful  Nipper  sneezing. 

Youthful,  and  how  beautiful,  the  young  bride  looks,  in 
this  old  dusty  place,  with  no  kindred  object  near  her  bul 
her  husband.  There  is  a  dusty  old  clerk,  who  keeps  a 
sort  of  evaporated  news-shop  underneath  an  archway 
opposite,  behind  a  perfect  fortification  of  posts.  Tiiere 
is  a  dusty  old  pew-opener  who  only  keeps  herself,  and 
finds  that  quite  enough  to  do.  There  is  a  dusty  old 
beadle  (these  are  Mr.  Toots's  beadle  and  pew-opener 
of  last  Sunday),  who  has  something  to  do  with  a  Wor- 
shipfid  Company  who  have-got  a  Hal'  in  the  next  yard 
with  a  stained-glass  window  in  it  that  no  mortal  evei 
saw.  There  are  dusty  wooden  ledges  and  cornices  poked 
in  and  out  over  the  altar,  and  over  the  screen  and  round 
the  gallery,  and  over  the  inscription  about  what  lii6 
Master  and  "Wardens  of  the  Worshipful  Company  did 
in  one  thousand  six  hundred  and  ninety-four.  There  are 
dusty  old  sounding-boards  over  the  pulpit  and  reading- 
desk,  looking  like  lids  to  be  let  down  on  the  (IBcialing 
ministers,  in  case  of  their  giving  offence.  There  is  everj 
jjossible  provision  for  the  accommodation  of  dust,  except 
in  the  church-yard,  where  the  facilities  in  that  respect 
are  very  limited. 

The  cj\ptain.  Uncle  Sol,  and  Mr.  Toots,  are  come ;  the 
ilergyman  is  putting  on  his  surplic»i  in  the  vestry,  wMie 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  285 

the  cierK  walk.i  round  hira,  blowing  tlie  dust  off  U;  and 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  stand  before  the  altar.  There 
is  no  bridesmaid,  unless  Susan-Nipper  is  one ;  and  no 
better  father  than  Captain  Cuttle.  A  man  with  a  wooden 
leg,  cliewing  a  faint  apple  and  carrying  a  blue  bag  in  his 
hand,  looks  in  to  see  what  is  going  on  ;  but  finding  it 
nothing  entertaining,  stumps  off  again,  and  pegs  his  way 
among  the  echoes  out  of  doors. 

No  gracious  ray  of  light  is  seen  to  fall  on  Florence, 
kneeling  at  the  altar  with  her  timid  head  bowed  down. 
The  morning  luminary  is  built  out,  and  don't  shine  there. 
There  is  a  meagre  tree  outside,  where  the  sparrows  aro 
chirping  a  little  ;  and  there  is  a  blackbird  in  an  eyelet- 
hole  of  sun  in  a  dyer's  garret,  over  againi^t  the  window, 
who  whistles  loudly  whilst  the  service  is  performing ; 
and  there  is  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg  stumping 
away.  The  amens  of  the  dusty  clerk  appear,  like  Mac- 
bet  h's,  to  stick  in  his  throat  a  little;  but  Captain  Cuttle 
helps  him  out,  and  does  it  with  so  much  good-will  that 
h(i  interpolates  three  entirely  new  responses  of  that  word, 
never  introduced  into  the  service  before. 

They  are  married,  and  have  signed  their  names  in  one 
of  the  old  sneezy  registers,  and  the  clergyman's  surplice 
is  restored  to  the  dust,  and  the  clergyman  is  gone  home. 
It  a  dark  corner  of  the  dark  church,  Florence  has  turned 
10  Susan  Nipper,  and  is  weeping  in  her  arms.  Mr. 
Ttwts's  eyes  are  red.  The  captain  lubricates  his  noso 
Uncle  Sol  has  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from  his  fore- 
head, and  walked  out  to  the  door. 

«  God  bless  you,  Susan ;  dearest  Susan  !  If  you  ever 
can  bear  witness  to  the  love  I  have  for  Walter,  and  the 
reason  that  I  have  to  love  him,  do  it  for  his  sake.  Good- 
by  1     Good-by  !  " 


23Q  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

They  have  thought  it  better  not  to  go  back  to  the 
Midshipman,  but  to  part  so ;  a  coach  is  waiting  for  them, 
near  at  .land. 

Miss  Nipper  cannot  speak ;  she  only  sobs  and  chokea, 
and  hugs  her  mistress.  ^Vlr.  Toots  advances,  urges  licr 
to  cheer  up,  and  takes  charge  of  her.  Florence  gives 
him  her  hand  —  gives  him,  in  the  fuhiess  of  her  heart, 
her  lips  —  kisses  Uncle  Sol,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  and  ia 
borne  away  by  her  young  husband. 

But  Susan  cannot  bear  that  Florence  should  go  a«ay 
w"th  a  mournful  recollection  of  her.  She  bad  meant  to 
be  so  different,  that  she  reproaches  herself  bitterly.  In- 
tent on  making  one  last  effort  to  redeem  her  character, 
she  breaks  from  Mr.  Toots  and  runs  away  to  find  the 
coach,  and  show  a  parting  smile.  The  captain,  divining 
her  object,  sets  off  after  her  ;  for  he  feels  it  his  duty  also, 
to  dismiss  them  with  a  cheer,  if  possible.  Uncle  Sol  and 
Mr.  Toota  are  left  behind  together,  outside  the  church,  to 
wait  for  them. 

The  coach  is  gone,  but  the  street  is  steep,  and  narrow, 
and  blocked  up,  and  Susan  can  see  it  at  a  stand-still  in 
the  distance,  she  is  sure.  Captain  Cuttle  follows  her  as  she 
ilies  down  the  hill,  and  waves  his  glazed  hat  as  a  general 
signal,  which  may  attract  the  right  coach  and  may  not. 

Susan  outstrips  the  captain,  and  comes  tip  with  it. 
She  looks  in  at  the  window,  sees  Walter,  with  tho 
gentle  face  beside  him,  and  claps  her  hands  and  screams  : 

"  Miss  Floy,  my  darling  !  look  at  me !  We  are  all  so 
happy  now,  dear  !  One  more  good-by,  my  precious,  one 
more ! " 

How  Susan  does  it,  she  don't  know,  but  she  readies  tc 
the  window,  kisses  her,  and  has  her  ai'ms  about  her  neck 
in  a  moment. 


DOMBEY  AND  SCJT.  237 

"We  are  all  so  —  so  happy  now,  my  dear  Miss 
Floy !  "  says  Susan,  with  a  suspicious  catching  in  her 
breath.  "  You,  you  won't  be  angry  with  me,  now 
Now  will  you  ?  ** 

''  Angry,  Susan  !  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  am  sure  you  won't.  I  say  you  won't,  mj 
pet,  my  dearest ! "  exclaims  Susan  ;  "  and  here's  the  cap- 
tain, too  —  youi  friend  the  captain,  you  know  —  to  say 
good-by  once  more  !  " 

"  Hooroar,  my  Heart's  Delight ! "  vociferates  the  cap- 
tain, with  a  countenance  of  strong  emotion.  "  Hooroar, 
Wal'r  my  lad  !     Hooroar  !     Hooroar  ! " 

What  with  the  young  husband  at  one  window,  and  the 
young  wife  at  the  other ;  the  captain  hanging  on  at  this 
door,  and  Susan  Nipper  holding  fast  by  that ;  the  coach 
obliged  to  go  on  whether  it  will  or  no,  and  all  the_  other 
carts  and  coaches  turbulent  because  it  hesitates;  there 
never  was  so  much  confusion  on  four  wheels.  But  Susaii 
Nipper  gallantly  maintains  her  point.  She  keeps  a  smil- 
ing face  upon  her  mistress,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
until  the  last.  Even  when  she  is  left  behind,  the  captain 
continues  to  appear  and  disappear  at  the  door  crying 
**  Hooroar,  my  lad  !  Hooroar,  my  Heart's  Delight !  " 
with  his  shirt  collar  in  a  violent  stat^  of  agitation,  untiJ 
it  is  hopeless  to  attempt  to  keep  up  with  the  coach  any 
longer.  Finally,  when  the  coach  is  gone,  Susjm  Nipi)er 
being  rejoined  by  the  captain,  falls  into  a  state  of  iaseiisi^ 
bility,  and  is  taken  into  a  baker's  shop  to  recover. 

Uncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  wait  patiently  in  the  church- 
yard, silting  on  the  coping-stone  of  the  railings,  urtil 
Captain  Cuttle  and  Susan  come  back.  Neither  being  at 
all  desirous  to  speak,  oi-  to  be  spoken  to,  tliey  are  excel- 
lent company,  and  quite  satisfied.     When  they  all  arrive 


2o8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

again  at  the  little  Midshipman,  and  sit  down  to  breakfast, 
nobody  can  touch  a  morsel.  Captain  Cuttle  makes  a 
feint  of  being  voracious  about  toast,  but  gives  it  up  aa 
a  swindle.  Mr.  Toots  says,  after  breakfast,  he  will  come 
back  in  the  evening ;  and  goes  wandering  about  the  town 
all  day,  with  a  vague  sensation  upon  him  as  if  he  hadn't 
been  to  bed  for  a  fortnight. 

There  is  a  strange  charm  in  the  house,  and  in  the 
room,  in  which  they  have  been  used  to  be  together,  and 
out  of  which  so  much  is  gone.  It  aggravates,  and  yet 
it  soothes,  the  sorrow  of  the  sepai'ation.  Mr.  Toots  tells 
Susan  Nipper  when  he  comes  at  night,  that  he  hasn't 
been  so  wretched  all  day  long,  and  yet  he  likes  it.  He 
confides  in  Susan  Nipper,  being  alone  with  her,  and  tells 
her  what  his  feelings  were  when  she  gave  him  that  can- 
did opinion  as  to  the  probability  of  Miss  Dombey's  ever 
loving  liira.  In  the  vein  of  confidence  engendered  by 
these  common  recollections,  and  their  tears,  Mr.  Toots 
proposes  that  they  shall  go  out  together,  and  buy  some- 
thing for  supper.  Miss  Nipper  assenting,  they  buy  a 
good  many  little  things ;  and,  with  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards, set  the  supper  out  quite  showily  before  the  captain 
and  old  Sol  came  home. 

The  captain  ,  and  old  Sol  have  been  on  board  the 
sliip,  and  have  established  Di  there,  and  have  seen  the 
chests  put  aboard.  They  have  much  to  tell  about  the 
popularity  of  Walter,  and  the  comforts  he  will  have  about 
him,  and  the  quiet  way  in  which  it  seems  he  has  been 
working  early  and  late,  to  make  his  cabin  what  the 
captain  calls  "  a  picter,"  to  surprise  his  little  wife.  "  A 
atlmiral's  cabin,  mind  you,"  says  the  captain,  "  a'n't  more 
\rim." 

But  one  of  the  captain's    jthief   delight^    is,  that    he 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  239 

khows  the  big  watch,  and  the  sugar-tongs,  and  tea- 
Bpoons,  are  on  board ;  and  again  and  again  he  mur. 
murs  to  himself,  "  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  nevei 
shaped  a  better  course  in  your  life,  than  when  yotj 
made  that  there  little  property  over  jintly.  Tou  se* 
how  the  land  bore,  Ed'ard,"  says  the  captain,  "  and  il 
does  you  credit,  my  lad." 

The  old  Instrument-maker  is  more  distraught  and 
misty  than  he  used  to  be,  and  takes  the  marriage  and 
the  parting  very  much  to  heart.  But  he  is  greatly 
comforted  by  having  his  old  ally,  Ned  Cuttle,  at  his  side ; 
and  he  sits  down  to  supper  with  a  grateful  and  con- 
tented face. 

"My  boy  has  been  preserved  and  thrives,"  says  old 
Sol  Gills,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  What  right  have  I  to 
be  otherwise  than  tliankl'ul  and  happy!" 

The  captain,  who  has  not  yet  taken  his  seat  at  the 
table,  but  who  has  been  Odgeting  about  for  some  time, 
and  now  stands  hesitating  in  his  place,  looks  doubtfully 
at  Mr.  Gill?;,  and  says : 

"  Sol !  There's  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira 
down  below.  Would  you  wish  to  have  it  up  to-night, 
my  boy,  and  drink  to  Wal'r  and  his  wife  ?  " 

The  Instrument-maker,  looking  wiftfully  at  the  cap- 
tain, puts  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coffeft- 
colored  coat,  bilngs  forth  his  pocket-book,  and  takes  a 
liitter  out. 

"  To  JNIr.  Dombey,"  says  the  old  man.  "  From  Wal- 
ler.    To  be  s^nt  in  three  weeks'  time.     I'll  read  it." 

"  Sir.  I  am  married  to  your  daughter.  She  is  gone 
with  me  upon  a  distant  voyage.  To  be  devoted  to  hei 
is  to  have  no  claim  on  her  or  you,  but  God  knows  tb«l 
\  am. 


240  DOMBKif    AJfD  SON. 

•' '  Why,  loving  her  beyond  all  earthly  things,  1  have 
yet,  without  remorse,  united  her  to  the  uncertainties 
and  dangers  of  my  life,  I  will  not  say  to  you.  You 
know  why,  and  you  are  her  father. 

'' '  Do  not  reproach  her.  She  has  never  reproached 
jou. 

" '  I  do  not  think  or  hope  that  you  will  e\  er  forgive 
me.  There  is  nothing  I  expect  less.  But  if  an  hour 
should  come  when  it  will  comfort  you  to  believe  that 
Florence  has  some  one  ever  near  her,  the  great  charge 
of  whose  life  is  to  cancel  her  remembrance  of  past  sor- 
row, I  solemnly  assure  you,  you  may,  in  that  hour,  rest 
in  that  belief.'  " 

Solomon  puts  back  the  letter  carefully  in  his  pocket- 
book,  and  puts  back  his  pocket-book  in  his  coat. 

"  We  won't  drink  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira 
yet,  Ned,"  says  the  old  man  thoughtfully.     "  Not  yet." 

'•  Not  yet,"  assents  the  captain.     *'  No.    Not  yet." 

Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  are  of  the  same  opinion.  After 
a  silence  they  all  sit  down  to  supper,  and  drink  to  the 
young  husband  and  wife  in  something  else ;  iind  the  last 
bottle  of  the  old  Madeira  still  remains  among  its  dost 
and  cobwebs^  undisturbed. 

A  few  days  have  elapsed,  and  a  stately  ship  is  out  al 
sea,  spreading  its  white  wings  to  the  favoTing  wind. 

Upon  the  deck,  image  to  the  roughest  man  on  board 
of  something  that  is  graceful,  beautiful,  and  harmless  — 
soinetliing  that  it  is  good  and  pleasant  fb  have  there, 
and  that  should  make  the  voyage  prosperous  —  is  Flor- 
ence. It  is  night,  and  she  and  Walter  sit  alone,  watch- 
ing ihe  solemn  path  of  light  upon  the  sea  between  them 
«nd   the  m(X)U. 


DOMBET   AND  SON.  .  241 

At  lengtli  shii  cannot  see  it  plainly,  for  the  tears  that 
fill  her  eyes  ;  and  then  she  lays  her  head  down  on  hia 
breast,  and  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck,  saying,  **  Oh 
Walter,  dearest  love,  I  am  so  happy  !" 

|Ier  husband  holds  her  to  his  heart,  and  they  ai-e 
very  quiet,  and  the  stately  ship  goes  on  serenely. 

"  As  I  hear  the  sea,"  says  Florence,  "  and  sit  watch 
iiig  it,  it  brings  so  many  days  into  my  mind.  It  makes 
me  think  so  much  "  — 

"  Of  Paul,  my  love.     I  know  it  does." 

Of  Paul  and  Walter.  And  the  voices  in  the  wavea 
are  always  whispering  to  Florence,  in  their  ceaseless 
murmuring,  of  love  —  of  love,  eternal  and  illimitable, 
not  bounded  by  the  confines  of  this  world,  or  by  the 
end  of  time,  but  ranging  still,  beyond  the  sea,  beyoii'i 
the  sky,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away  I 


VOIk  IV. 


212  DOMBET  USD  SON. 


CHAPTER  LVin. 


AFTER    A   LAPSE. 


The  sea  had  ebbed  and  flowed,  through  a  whole  year, 
through  a  whole  year,  the  winds  and  clouds  had  come 
and  gone ;  the  ceaseless  work  of.  Time  had  been  per- 
formed, in  storm  and  sunshine.  Through  a  whole  year 
the  tides  of  human  chance  and  change  had  set  in  their 
allotted  courses.  Through  a  whole  year,  the  famous 
House  of  Dombey  and  Son  had  fought  a  fight  for  life, 
against  cross  accidents,  doubtful  rumors,  unsuccessful 
ventures,  unpropitious  times,  and  most  of  all,  against 
the  infatuation  of  its  head,  who  would  not  contract  its 
enterprises  by  a  hair's-breadtb,  and  would  not  listen  to 
a  word  of  warning  thai  tli*  chip  he  strained  so  hard 
against  the  storm,  was  weak,  and  could  not  bear  it. 

The  year  was  out,  and  the  great  House  was  down. 

One  summer  afternoon ;  a  year,  wanting  some  odd 
days,  after  the  marriage  in  the  City  church ;  there  waa 
B  buzz  and  whisper  upon  'Change  of  a  great  failure. 
A  certain  cold  proud  man,  well  known  there,  was  not 
there,  nor  was  he  represented  there.  Next  day  it  was 
noised  abroad  that  Dombey  and  Son  had  stopped,  and 
next  night  there  was  a  list  of  bankrupts  published, 
headfd  by  that  name. 

The  world  was  very  busy  now,  in  sooth,  and  had  a 
deal  to  say.     It  was  an  innocently  credulous  and  a  much 


DOMBEY   AXD   SON.  243 

ill-used  world.  It  was  a  world  in  which  there  was  no 
otlier  sort  of  bankruptcy  whatever.  There  were  no  con- 
spicuous people  in  it,  trading  far  and  wide  on  rotten 
banks  of  religion,  patriotism,  virtue,  honor.  There  waa 
no  amount  worth  mentioning  of  mere  paper  in  circula- 
tion, on  which  anybody  lived  pretty  handsomely,  promis 
ing  to  pay  great  sums  of  goodness  with  no  effects.  There 
were  no  shortcomings  anywhere,  in  anything  but  money. 
The  world  was  very  angry  indeed  ;  and  the  people  es- 
pecially, who,  in  a  worse  world,  might  have  been  sup- 
posed to  be  bankrupt  traders  themselves  in  shows  and 
pretences,  were  observed  to  be  mightily  indignant. 

Here  was  a  new  inducement  to  dissipation,  presented 
to  that  sport  of  circumstances,  Mr.  Perch  the  messenger! 
It  was  apparently  the  fate  of  Mr.  Perch  to  be  always 
waking  up,  and  finding  himself  famous.  He  had  but 
yesterday,  as  one  might  say,  subsided  into  private  life 
from  the  celebrity  of  the  elopement  and  the  events  that 
followed  it ;  and  now  he  was  made  a  more  important 
man  than  ever,  by  the  bankruptcy.  Gliding  from  his 
bracket  in  the  outer  ofiice.  where  he  now  sat,  watch- 
ing the  strange  faces  of  accountants  and  others,  who 
quickly  superseded  nearly  all  the  old  clerks,  Mr.  Perch 
had  but  to  show  himself  in  the  court  outside,  or,  at 
farthest,  in  the  bar  of  the  King's  Arms,  to  be  asked  a 
multitude  of  questions,  almost  certain  to  include  that  in- 
teresting question,  what  would  he  take  to  drink  ?  Then 
would  Mr.  Perch  descant  upon  the  hours  of  acute  un- 
easiness he  and  Mrs.  Perch  had  suffered  out  at  Balls 
Pond,  when  they  first  suspected  "things  was  going 
A-rong."  Then  would  Mr.  Perch  relate  to  gaping 
listeners,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  the  corpse  of  the  decesised 
House  were  lying  unburied  in  the  next  room,  how  Mrs. 


i,44  DOISIBEY  A2TO  SON. 

Perch  had  first  come  to  surmise  that  things  was  going 
wrong  hy  hearing  him  (Perch)  moaning  in  his  sleep, 
"  twelve  and  ninepence  in  the  pound,  twelve  and  nine- 
pence  in  the  pound  !  "  Which  act  of  somnambulism  he 
supposed  to  have  originated  in  the  impression  made 
upon  him  by  the  change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face.  Then 
would  he  inform  them  how  he  had  once  said,  "  Might  1 
make  so  bold  as  ask,  sir,  are  you  unhappy  in  your 
mind?"  and  how  Mr.  Dombey  had  replied,  "My  faith- 
ful Perch  —  but  no,  it  cannot  be ! "  and  with  that  had 
struck  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  said,  "  Leave  me, 
Perch  ! "  Then,  in  short,  would  Mr.  Perch,  a  victim  lo 
his  position,  tell  all  manner  of  lies  ;  affecting  himself  to 
tears  by  those  that  were  of  a  moving  nature,  and  really 
believing  that  the  inventions  of  yesterday  had,  on  repeti- 
tion, a  sort  of  truth  about  them  to-day. 

Mr.  Perch  always  closed  these  conferences  by  meek- 
1}'  remarking.  That,  of  course,  whatever  his  suspicions 
might  have  been,  (as  if  he  had  ever  had  any !)  it  wasn't 
for  him  to  betray  his  trust  —  was  it  ?  Which  sentiment 
(there  never  being  any  creditors  present)  was  received 
as  doing  great  honor  to  his  feelings.  Thus,  he  generally 
brought  away  a  soothed  conscience  and  left  an  agreeable 
impression  behind  him,  when  he  returned  to  his  bracket : 
again  to  sit  watching  the  strange  faces  of  the  accountants 
and  others,  making  so  free  with  the  great  mysteries,  the 
Books ;  or  now  and  then  to  go  on  tiptoe  into  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's empty  room,  and  stir  the  fire  ;  or  to  take  an  airing 
at  the  door,  and  have  a  little  more  doleful  chat  with  any 
Btraggler  whom  he  knew ;  or  to  propitiate,  with  variong 
small  attentions,  the  head  accountant:  from  whom  Mr 
Perch  had  expectations  of  a  messengership  in  a  Fire  Of 
Ice,  when  the  affairs  of  the  House  should  be  wocnd  up. 


DOMBET  AND  SON  24* 

To  Major  Bagstock,  the  bankruptcy  was  quite  a  calam- 
hj.  The  major  was  not  a  sympathetic  character  —  his 
■ttention  being  wholly  concentrated  on  J.  B.  —  nor  was 
he  a  man  subject  to  lively  emotions,  except  in  the  phys- 
ical  regards  of  gasping  and  choking.  But  he  had  so 
paraded  his  friend  Dombey  at  the  ciub  ;  had  so  flour- 
ished him  at  the  heads  of  the  members  in  general,  and  so 
yut  them  down  by  continual  assertion  of  his  riches ;  that 
the  club,  being  but  human,  w^is  delighted  to  retort  upon 
the  major,  by  asking  him,  with  a  show  of  great  concern, 
whether  this  tremendous  smash  had  been  at  all  expected, 
and  how  his  friend  Dombey  bore  it.  To  such  questions, 
the  major,  waxing  very  purple,  would  reply  that  it  was  a 
bad  world,  sir,  altogether;  that  Joey  knew  a  thing  or 
two,  but  had  been  done,  sir,  done  like  an  infant ;  that  if 
you  had  foretold  this,  sir,  to  J.  Bagstock,  when  he  went 
abroad  with  Dombey  and  was  chasing  that  vagabond  up 
and  down  France,  J.  Bagstock  would  have  pooh-pooh'd 
you  —  would  have  pooh-pooh'd  you,  sir,  by  the  Lord ! 
That  Joe  had  been  deceived,  sir,  taken  in,  hoodwinked* 
blindfolded,  but  was  broad  afwake  again  and  staring  ;  in- 
somuch, sir,  that  if  Joe's  father  were  to  rise  up  from  the 
grave  to-morrow,  he  wouldn't  trust  the  old  blade  with  a 
|)enny  piece,  but  would  tell  him  that  his  son  Josh  was 
too  old  a  soldier  to  be  done  again,  sir.  That  he  was  a 
suspicious,  crabbed,  cranky,  used-up,  J.  B.  infidel,  sir; 
and  that  if  it  were  consistent  with  the  dignity  of  a  rough 
and  tough  old  major,  of  the  old  school,  who  had  had  th« 
honor  of  being  personally  known  to,  and  commended  by, 
Iheir  late  Royal  Highnesses  the  Dukes  of  Kent  and 
fork,  to  retire  to  a  tub  and  live  in  it,  l)y  Gad !  sir,  he'd 
have  a  tub  in  Pall  Mall  to-norrow,  to  show  his  contempt 
&)r  mainkind ! 


246  DOJreEY  AND  SON. 

Of  all  this,  and  many  variations  of  the  same  tjne,  the 
major  would  deliver  himself  with  so  many  apoplectic 
Bvmptoms,  such  rollings  of  his  head,  and  such  violent 
growls  of  ill-usage  and  resentment,  that  the  younger 
members  of  the  club  surmised  he  had  invested  money  in 
his  friend  Dombey's  House,  and  lost  it;  though  the 
older  soldiers  and  deeper  dogs,  who  knew  Joe  better, 
wouldn't  hear  of  such  a  thing.  The  unfortunate  native, 
expressing  no  opinion,  suffered  dreadfully;  not  merely 
in  his  moral  feelings,  which  were  regularly  fusilladed  by 
the  major  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  riddled  through 
and  through,  but  in  his  sensitiveness  to  bodily  knocks 
and  bumps,  which  was  kept  continually  on  the  stretch. 
For  six  entire  weeks  after  the  bankruptcy,  this  misem- 
hie  foreigner  lived  in  a  rainy  season  of  bootjacks  and 
brushes. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  three  ideas  upon  the  subject  of  the 
terrible  reverse.  The  first  was  that  she  could  not 
understand  it.  The  second,  that  her  brother  had  not 
made  an  effort.  The  third,  that  if  she  had  been  in- 
vited to  dinner  on  the  day  <5f  that  first  party,  it  never 
would  have  happened ;  and  that  she  had  said  so,  at  the 
time. 

Nobody's  opinion  stayed  the  misfortune,  lightened  it, 
or  made  it  heavier.  It  was  understood  that  the  affaira 
of  ihe  House  were  to  be  wound  up  as  they  best  could 
be ;  that  Mr.  Dombey  freely  resigned  e  rerything  he  had, 
and  asked  for  no  favor  from  any  one.  That  any  re- 
sumption of  the  business  was  out  of  the  question,  as  he 
would  listen  to  no  friendly  negotiation  having  that  com- 
promise in  view  ;  that  he  had  relinquished  every  post  of 
trust  or  distinction  he  had  held,  as  a  man  lespected 
tmong  merchants;  that  he  was  dying,  according  to  som«5, 


DOMBEY  AND  SCN.  247 

Lhat  he  wai  going  melancholy  mad,  according  to  others 
that  he  was  a  broken  man,  according  to  all. 

The  clerks  dispersed  after  holding  a  little  dinner  of 
condolence  among  themselves,  which  was  enlivened  by 
comic  singing,  and  went  off  admii-ably.  Some  took 
places  abroad,  and  some  engaged  in  other  houses  at 
home ;  some  looked  up  relations  in  the  country,  for 
whom  they  suddenly  remembered  they  had  a  particular 
affection,  and  some  advertised  for  employment  in  the 
newspapers :  Mr.  Perch  alone  remained  of  all  the  late 
establishment,  sitting  on  his  bracket  looking  at  the  ac- 
countants, or  starting  off  it,  to  propitiate  the  head  ac- 
countant, who  was  to  get  him  into  the  Fire  Office.  The 
counting-house  soon  got  to  be  dirty  and  neglected-  The 
principal  slipper  and  dogs'  collar  seller,  at  the  corner  of 
the  court,  would  have  doubted  the  propriety  of  throwing 
up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his  hat,  any  more,  if  Mr. 
Dombey  had  appeared  there  now ;  and  the  ticket  porter, 
with  his  hands  under  his  white  apron,  moralized  good 
sound  morality  about  ambition,  which  (he  observed)  was 
not,  in  his  opinion,  made  to  rhyme  to  perdition,  for 
nothing. 

Mr.  Morfin  the  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  with  the  hair  and 
whiskere  sprinkled  with  gray,  was  perhaps  the  only  per- 
son within  the  atmosphere  of  the  House  —  its  head,  of 
course,  excepted  —  who  was  heartily  and  deeply  affected 
by  the  disaster  that  had  befallen  it.  He  had  treated 
Mr.  Dombey  with  due  respect  and  deference  through 
many  years,  but  he  had  never  disguised  his  natural 
character,  or  meanly  truckled  to  him,  or  pampered  his 
master  passion  for  the  advancement  of  his  own  purposes. 
He  had,  therefore,  no  self-disrespect  to  avenge  ;  no  long- 
lighteaeJ  springs  to  release  with  a  quick  recoil.     H« 


24S  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

worked  early  and  late  to  unravel  whalever  was  compH« 
eated  or  difficult  in  the  records  of  the  transactions  of  the 
House ;  was  always  in  attendance  to  explain  whatever 
required  explanation ;  sat  in  his  old  room  sometimes 
very  late  at  night,  studying  points  by  his  mastery  of 
which  lie  could  spare  Mr.  Dorabey  the  pain  of  being 
personally  referred  to ;  and  then  would  go  home  to 
Islington,  and  calm  his  mind  by  producing  the  most 
dismal  and  forlorn  sounds  out  of  his  violoncello  before 
going  to  bed. 

He  was  solacing  himself  with  this  melodious  grumbler 
one  evening,  and,  having  been  much  dispirited  by  the 
proceedings  of  the  day,  was  scraping  consolation  out  of 
its  deepest  notes,  when  his  landlady  (who  was  for- 
tunately deaf,  and  had  no  other  consciousness  of  these 
performances  than  a  sensation  of  something  rumbling 
m  her  bones)  announced  a  lady. 

"  In  mourning,"  she  said. 

The  violoncello  stopped  immediately ;  and  the  per- 
former, laying  it  on  a  sofa  with  great  tenderness  and 
care,  made  a  sign  that  the  lady  was  to  come  in.  He 
followed  dii-ectly,  and  met  Harriet  Carker  on  the  stair. 

"  Alone  ! "  he  said,  "  and  John  here  this  morning  I  Is 
there  anything  the  matter,  my  dear."*  But  no,"  he  added, 
"  your  face  tells  quite  another  story." 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  a  selfish  revelation  that  you  seo 
liiere,  then,"  she  answered.  _ 

"  It  is  a  very  pleasant  one,"  said  he  ;  "  and,  if  selfish, 
a  novelty  too,  worth  seeing  in  you.  But  I  don't  believe 
that." 

He  had  placed  a  chair  for  her  by  this  time,  ajid  sat 
down  opposite  ;  the  violoncello  Ijing  snugly  on  the  soft 
tHitweeu   them. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  249 

"  You  will  not  be  surprised  at  my  roming  alone,  or  at 
John's  not  having  told  you  I  was  coming,"  said  Harriet; 
"  and  you  loill  believe  that,  when  I  tell  you  why  I  have 
come.     May  I  da  so  now  ?  " 

''  You  can  do  nothing  better." 

"  You  were  not  busy  ?" 

He  pointed  to  the  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa,  and 
said,  "  I  have  been,  all  day.  Here's  my  witness.  1 
have  been  confiding  all  my  cares  to  it.  I  wish  I  had 
none  but  ray  own  to  tell."  • 

"  Is  the  House  at  an  end  ? "  said  Harriet,  earnestly. 

"  Completely  at  an  end." 

"  Will  it  never  be  resumed  ?  " 

«  Never." 

The  bright  expression  of  her  face  was  not  overshad- 
owed as  her  lips  silently  repeated  the  word.  He  seemed 
to  observe  this  with  some  little  involuntary  surprise  :  and 
said  again  : 

"  Nevei-.  You  remember  what  I  told  you.  It  has 
been,  all  along,  impossible  to  convince  him  ;  impossible 
to  reason  with  him  ;  sometimes,  impossible  even  to  ap- 
proach him.  The  worst  has  happened  ;  and  the  House 
has  fallen,  never  to  be  built  up  any  more." 

"And  Mr.  Dombey,  is  he  personally  ruined?" 

«  Ruined." 

"Will  he  have  no  private  fortune  left?     Nothing?" 

A  certain  eagerness  in  her  voice,  and  something  thai 
ysas  almost  joyful  in  her  look,  seemed  to  surprise  hira 
more  and  more ;  to  disappoint  him  too,  and  jar  discord- 
antly against,  his  own  emotions.  He  drummed  with  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  on  the  table,  looking  wistfully  at  her 
and  shaking  his  head,  said,  after  a  pause  : 

"  The  extent  of  IMr.  Dombey's  resources  i?  not  accu 


2.  0  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

rately  within  my  knowledge  ;  but  though  thoy  are  doubt- 
less very  large,  his  obligations  are  enormous.  He  is  a 
gentleman  of  high  honor  and  integrity.  Any  man  in 
his  position  could,  and  many  a  man  in  his  position  would, 
have  saved  himself,  by  making  terms  which  would  have 
very  slightly,  almost  insensibly,  increased  the  losses  of 
those  who  had  had  dealings  with  him,  and  left  him  a 
remnant  to  live  upon.  But  he  is  resolved  on  payment 
to  the  last  farthing  of  his  means.  His  own  words  ai"©, 
that  they  will  clear,  or  neai'ly  clear,  the  House,  and  that 
no  one  can  lose  much.  Ah  Miss  Harriet,  it  would  do 
us  no  harm  to  remember  oftener  than  we  do,  that  vices 
are  sometimes  only  virtues  carried  to  excess  !  His  pride 
shows  well  in  this." 

She  heard  him  with  little  or  no  change  in  her  expres- 
sion, and  with  a  divided  attention  that  showed  her  to  be 
busy  with  something  in  her  own  mind.  When  he  was 
silent,  she  asked  him  hurriedly : 

•'  Have  you  seen   him  lately  ? " 

"  No  one  sees  him.  When  this  crisis  of  his  affairs 
renders  it  necessary  for  him  to  come  out  of  his  house, 
he  comes  out  for  the  occasion,  and  again  goes  home,  and 
shuts  himself  up,  and  will  see  no  one.  He  has  written 
me  a  letter,  acknowledging  our  past  connection  in  higher 
terms  than  it  deserved,  and  parting  from  me.  I  am  del- 
icate of  obtruding  myself  upon  him  now,  never  having 
had  much  intercourse  with  him  in  better  times;  but  I 
Viave  tried  to  do  so.  I  have  written,  gone  there,  en 
treated.     Quite  in  vain." 

He  watched  her,  as  in  the  hope  that  she  would  testify 
some  greater  concern  than  ske  had  yet  shown  ;  and  spoke 
gravely  and  feelingly,  as  if  to  impress  her  the  more ;  but 
there  was  no  change  in  her. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  251 

«« Well,  well,  Miss  Haiiiet,"  he  said,  with  a  disappointed 
air,  "  this  is  not  to  the  purpose.  You  have  not  come 
here  to  hear  this.  Some  other  and  pleasanter  theme  is 
in  your  mind.  Let  it  be  in  mine,  too,  and  we  shall  talk 
upon  more  equal  terms.     Come  !  " 

"  No,  it  is  tlie  same  theme,"  retumed  Harriet,  with 
frank  and  quick  surprise.  "Is  it  not  likely  that  it  should 
be  ?  Is  it  not  natural  that  John  and  1  should  have  been 
thinking  and  speaking  very  much  of  late  of  these  great 
changes  ?  Mr.  Dorabey,  whom  he  served  so  many  yeara 
—you  know  upon  what  terras  —  reduced,  as  you  describe; 
and  we  quite  rich  !  " 

Good,  true  face,  as  that  face  of  hers  was,  and  pleasant 
as  it  had  been  to  him,  Mr.  Morfin,  the  hazel-eyed  bach- 
elor, since  the  first  time  he  had  ever  looked  upon  it, 
it  pleased  him  less  at  that  moment,  lighted  with  a 
ray  of  exultation,  than  it  had  ever  pleased  him  be- 
fore. 

"  I  need  not  remind  you,"  said  Harriet,  casting  down 
her  eyes  upon  her  black  dress,  "  through  what  means 
our  circumstances  changed.  You  have  not  forgotten  that 
our  brother  James,  upon  that  dreadful  day,  left  no  will, 
no  relations  but  ourselves." 

The  face  was  pleasanter  to  him  now,  though  it  wafl 
pale  and  melancholy,  than  it  had  been  a  moment  since. 
He  seemed  to  breathe  more  cheerily. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  our  history,  the  history  of 
both  my  brothers,  in  connection  with  the  unfortunate, 
unhappy  gentleman,  of  whom  you  have  spoken  so  truly. 
You  know  how  few  our  wants  are  —  John's  and  mine  — 
and  what  little  use  we  have  for  money,  after  the  life  we 
liave  led  together  for  so  many  years ;  and  now  that  he 
18  earning  an  income  that  is  ample  for  us,  tlvrough  yo«ii 


252  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

kindness.  Yoa  are  not  unprepared  to  hear  what  favot 
I  have  come  to  ask  of  you  ?  " 

'•  1  hardly  know.  I  was,  a  minute  ago.  Now,  I  thinks 
[  ara  not." 

"  Of  my  dead  brother,  I  say  nothing.  If  the  dead 
inow  what  we  do  —  but  you  understand  me.  Of  my 
riving  brother  I  could  say  much :  but  what  need  I  say 
more,  than  that  this  act  of  duty,  in  which  I  have  come 
to  ask  your  indispensable  assistance,  is  his  own,  and  that 
he  cannot  rest  until  it  is  performed  ! " 

She  raised  her  eyes  again  ;  and  the  light  of  exultation 
in  her  face  began  to  appear  beautiful,  in  the  observant 
eyes  that  watched  her. 

"  Dear  sir,"  she  went  on  to  say,  "  it  must  be  done 
very  quietly  and  secretly.  Your  experience  and  knowl- 
edge will  point  out  a  way  of  doing  it,  Mr.  Dombey  may, 
perhaps,  be  led  to  believe  that  it  is  something  saved,  un- 
expectedly, from  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes  ;  or  that  it  is 
a  voluntary  tribute  to  his  honorable  and  upright  charac- 
ter, froin  some  of  those  with  whom  he  has  had  great 
dealings ;  or  that  it  is  some  old  lost  debt  repaid.  There 
must  be  many  ways  of  doing  it.  I  know  you  will  choose 
the  best.  The  favor  I  have  come  to  ask  is,  that  you 
will  do  it  for  us  in  your  own  kind,  generous,  considerate 
manner.  That  you  will  never  speak  of  it  to  John,  whose 
chief  happiness  in  this  act  of  restitution  is  to  do  it  se- 
cretly, unknown,  and  unapproved  of;  that  only  a  very 
small  part  of  the  inheritance  may  be  reserved  to  us,  until 
Mr.  Dombey  shall  have  possessed  the  interest  of  the  rest 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life ;  that  you  will  keep  our  se- 
cret, faithfully  — ^Jbut  that  I  am  sure  you  will ;  and  that, 
from  this  time,  it  may  seldom  be  whispered,  even  between 
you  and  me,  but  may  live  in  my  thoughts  only  as  a  new 


iX)MBET  AND  SON.  258 

reason  for  thankfulness  to  Heaven,  and  joy  and  pride  in 
my  brother." 

Such  a  look  of  exultation  there  may  be  on  Angela 
faces,  when  the  one  repentant  sinner  enters  heaven, 
among  ninety-nine  just  men.  It  was  not  dimmed  ot 
tarnished  by  the  joyful  tears  that  filled  her  eyes,  but  was 
the  brighter  for  them. 

"  My  dear  Harriet,"  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a  silence, 
"  I  was  not  prepared  for  this.  Do  I  understand  you  that 
you  wish  to  make  your  own  part  in  the  inheritance  avail* 
able  for  your  good  purpose,  as  well  as  John's  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  returned.  "  When  we  have  shared 
everything  together  for  so  long  a  time,  and  have  had  no 
care,  hope,  or  purpose  apart,  could  I  bear  to  be  excluded 
from  my  share  in  this  ?  May  I  not  urge  a  claim  to  be 
my  brother's  partner  and  companion  to  the  last  ?  " 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  dispute  it ! "  he  re- 
plied. 

"  We  may  rely  on  your  friendly  help  ?  "  she  said.  "  I 
knew  we  might !  " 

"  1  should  be  a  worse  man  than,  —  than  I  hope  I  am, 
or  would  willingly  believe  myself,  if  I  could  not  give 
you  that  assurance  from  my  heart  and  soul.  You  may, 
implicitly.  Upon  my  honor,  I  will  keep  your  secret. 
And  if  it  should  be  found  that  Mr.  Dombey  is  so  re- 
duced as  I  fear  he  will  be,  acting  on  a  determination 
that  there  seem  to  be  no  means  of  influencing,  I  will 
assist  you  to  accomplish  the  design,  on  which  you  and 
John  are  jointly  resolved." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  thanked  him  with  a  cor- 
dial, happy  face. 

"  Harriet,"  he  said,  detaining  it  in  his,  "  To  speak  to 
fou   of  the  worth  of  any  sacrifice  that   you  can   make 


254  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

now  —  above  sill,  of  any  sacrifice  of  mere  money  — 
would  be  idle  and  presumptuous.  To  put  before  you 
any  appeal  to  reconsider  your  purpose  or  to  set  narrow 
limits  to  it,  would  be,  I  feel,  not  less  so.  I  have  no 
right  to  mar  the  great  end  of  a  great  history,  by  any 
obtrusion  of  my  own  weak  self.  I  have  every  right  to 
bend  my  head  before  what  you  confide  to  me,  satisfied 
that  it  comes  from  a  higher  and  better  source  of  inspi- 
ration than  my  poor  worldly  knowledge.  I  will  say 
only  this,  I  am  your  faithful  steward ;  and  I  would 
rather  be  so,  and  your  chosen  friend,  than  I  would  be 
anybody  in  the  world,  except  yourself." 

Slie  thanked  him  again,  cordially,  and  wished  him 
good-night. 

"  Are  you  going  home  ?  "  he  said.  "  Let  me  go  with 
you." 

"  Not  to-night.  I  am  not  going  home  now ;  I  have 
a  visit  to  make  alone.     Will  you  come  to-morrow  ? " 

"  "Well,  well,"  said  he,  "  I'll  come  to-morrow.  In  the 
mean  time,  I'll  think  of  this,  and  how  we  can  best  pro- 
ceed. And  perhaps  you^U  think  of  it,  dear  Harriet,  and 
—  and  —  think  of  me  a  little  in  connection  with  it." 

He  handed  her  down  to  a  coach  she  had  in  waiting 
at  the  door ;  and  if  his  landlady  had  not  been  deaf,  she 
would  have  heard  him  muttering  as  he  went  back  up- 
stairs, when  the  coach  had  driven  off,  that  we  were 
creatures  of  habit,  and  it  was  a  sorrowful  habit  to  be 
an  old  bachelor. 

The  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa  between  the  two 
chairs,  he  took  it  up,  without  putting  away  the  vacant 
chair,  and  sat  droning  on  it,  and  slowly  shaking  his  head 
at  the  vacant  chair,  for  a  long,  long  time.  The  expres- 
lion  he  coram\micated  to  the  instrument  at  first,  though 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  255 

monstrously  pathetic  and  bland,  was  nothing  to  he  ei- 
pression  he  communicated  to  his  own  face,  and  be.^towed 
up(m  the  empty  chair:  which  was  so  sincere,  that  he  waa 
obliged  to  have  recourse  to  Captain  Cuttle's  remedy  more 
than  once,  and  to  rub  his  face  with  his  sleeve.  By  de- 
grees, however,  the  violoncello,  in  unison  with  his  own 
frame  of  mind,  glided  melodiously  into  the  Harmonious 
Blacksmith,  which  he  played  over  and  over  again,  until 
his  ruddy  and  serene  face  gleamed  like  true  metal  on  the 
anvil  of  a  veritable  blacksmith.  In  fine,  the  violoncello 
and  the  empty  chair  were  the  companions  of  his  bachelor- 
hood until  nearly  midnight ;  and  when  he  took  his  sup- 
per, the  violoncello  set  up  on  end  in  the  sofa  corner, 
big  with  the  latent  harmony  of  a  whole  foundry  fuU 
of  harmonious  blacksmiths,  seemed  to  ogle  the  empty 
chair  out  of  its  crooked  eyes,  with  unutterable  intel- 
ligence. 

When  Harriet  left  the  house,  the  driver  of  her  hired 
coach,  taking  a  course  that  was  evidently  no  new  one  to 
him,  went  in  and  out  by  by-ways,  through  that  part  of 
the  fjuburbs,  until  he  arrived  at  some  open  ground,  wiiere 
there  were  a  few  quiet  little  old  houses  standing  among 
gardens.  At  the  garden-gate  of  one  of  these  he  stopped, 
and  Harriet  alighted. 

Her  gentle  ringing  at  the  bell  was  responded  to  by  a 
dolorous-looking  woman,  of  light  complexion,  with  raised 
eyebrows,  and  head  drooping  on  one  side,  who  courtesied 
ftt  sight  of  her,  and  conducted  her  across  the  garden  to 
tho  house. 

"  How  is  your  patient,  nurse,  to-night  ?  "  said  Har- 
riet. 

"  In  a  poor  way,  miss,  I  am  afraid.  Oh  how  she  do 
remind  me,  sometimes,  of  my  uncle's  Betsey  Jane  !  "  re- 


256  DOMBEY  AND  SOA. 

turned  the  woman  of  the  light  complexion,  jn  a  sort  of 
doleful  rapture. 

"  In  what  respect  ?  "  asked  Harriet. 

"  Miss,  in  all  respects,"  replied  the  other,  "  except  thai 
ehe's  grown  up,  and  Betsey  Jane,  when  at  death's  door, 
was  but  a  child." 

"  But  you  have  told  me  she  recovered,"  observed  Har 
riet  mildly  ;  "  so  there  is  the  more  reason  for  hope,  Mrs. 
Witkara." 

"  Ah,  miss,  hope  is  an  excellent  thing  for  such  as  haa 
the  spirits  to  bear  it !  "  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  shaking  her 
head..  "  My  own  spirits  is  not  equal  to  it,  but  I  don't 
owe  it  any  grudge.     I  envys  them  that  is  so  blest ! " 

"You  should  try  to  be  more  cheerful,"  remarked 
Harriet. 

"  Thank  you  miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam 
grimly.  "  If  I  was  so  inclined,  the  loneliness  of  this 
situation  —  you'll  excuse  my  speaking  so  free  —  would 
put  it  out  of  my  power,  in  four-and-twenty  hours ; 
but  I  a'n't  at  all.  I'd  rather  not.  The  little  spirits 
that  I  ever  had,  I  was  bereaved  of  at  Brighton  some 
few  years  ago,  and  I  think  I  feel  myself  the  better 
for  it." 

In  truth,  this  was  the  very  Mrs.  Wickam  who  had 
superseded  Mrs.  Richards  as  the  nurse  of  little  Paul, 
and  who  considered  herself  to  have  gained  the  loss  in 
juestion,  under  the  roof  of  the  amiable  Pipchin.  Tho 
«cellent  and  thoughtful  old  system,  hallowed  by  long 
prescription,  which  has  usually  picked  out  from  the  rust 
of  mankind  the  most  dreary  and  uncomfortable  people 
that  could  possibly  be  laid  hold  of,  to  act  as  instructors 
of  youth,  fingsr-posts  to  the  virtues,  matrons,  mcritora, 
attendants  on  sick-beds,  and  the    like,  had   established 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  257 

Mrs.  Wickam  in  very  good  business  as  a  nurse,  and 
had  led  to  her  serious  qualities  being  particularly  com- 
mended by  an  admiring  and  numerous  connection. 

Mrs.  Wickam,  with  her  eyebrows  elevated,  and  her 
head  on  one  side,  lighted  the  way  up-stairs  to  a  clean, 
neat,  chamber,  opening  on  another  chamber  dimly 
lighted,  where  there  was  a  bed.  In  the  first  room,  an 
old  woman  sat  mechanically  staring  out  at  the  open 
window,  on  the  darkness.  In  the  second,  stretched 
upon  the  bed,  lay  the  shadow  of  a  figure  that  had 
spurned  the  wind  and  rain,  one  wintry  night ;  hardly 
to  be  recognized  now,  but  by  the  long  black  hair  that 
showed  so  very  black  against  the  colorless  face,  and  all 
the  white  things  about  it. 

Oh,  the  strong  eyes,  and  the  weak  frame !  The  eyes 
that  tui'ned  so  eagerly  and  brightly  to  the  door  when 
Harriet  came  in  ;  the  feeble  head  that  could  not  raise 
itself,  and  moved  so  slowly  round  upon  its  pillow  ! 

"Alice  !  "  said  the  visitor's  mild  vo'^.e,  "am  I  late  to- 
night ?  " 

"  You  always  seem  late,  but  are  always  early." 

Harriet  had  sat  down  by  the  bedside  now,  and  put 
her  hand  upon  the  thin  hand  lying  there. 

"You  are  better?" 

Mrs.  "Wickam,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  like  a 
disconsolate  spectre,  most  decidedly  and  forcil)ly  shook 
her  head  to  negative  this  position. 

"  It  matters  very  little  !  "  said  Alice,  witli  a  faint  smile. 
"  Better  or  worse  to-day,  is  but  a  day's  difference  — 
perhaps  not  so  much." 

Mrs.  Wickam,  as  a  serious  character,  expressed  her 
approval  with  a  groan;  and  having  made  some  cold 
aabs  at  the  bottom  of  the  bedclothes,  as  feeling  for  the 

VOL.   IV.  17 


258  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

patient's  feet  and  expecting  to  find  them  stony,  went 
clinking  among  the  medicine  bottles  on  the  table,  as  who 
ihoiild  say,  "  while  we  are  here,  let  us  repeat  the  mix- 
lure  as  before." 

"  No,"  said  Alice,  whispering  to  her  visitor,  "  evil 
courses,  and  remorse,  travel,  want,  and  weather,  storm 
within,  and  storm  without,  have  worn  my  life  away.  It 
wrill  net  last  much  longer." 

She  drew  the  hand  up  as  she  spoke,  and  laid  hei 
face  against  it. 

"  I  lie  here,  sometimes,  thinking  I  should  like  to  live 
until  I  had  had  a  little  time  to  show  you  how  grate- 
ful I  could  be !  It  is  a  weakness,  and  soon  passes.  Bet- 
ter for  you  as  it  is.     Better  for  me !  " 

How  different  her  hold  upon  the  hand,  to  what  it  had 
been  when  she  took  it  by  the  fireside  on  the  bleak  winter 
evening !  Scorn,  rage,  defiance,  recklessness,  look  here  ! 
This  is  the  end. 

Mrs.  Wickam  having  clinked  suflSciently  among  the 
bottles,  now  produced  the  mixture.  Mrs.  Wickam  looked 
hard  at  her  patient  in  the  act  of  drinking,  screwed  her 
mouth  up  tight,  her  eyebrows  also,  and  shook  her  head, 
expressing  that  tortures  shouldn't  make  her  say  it  waa 
ft  hopeless  case.  Mrs.  Wickam  then  sprinkled  a  little 
cooling-stuff  about  the  room,  with  the  air  of  a  female 
grave-digger,  who  was  strewing  ashes  on  a«hes,  dust 
on  dust  —  for  she  was  a  serious  character  —  and  with- 
drew to  partake  of  certain  funeral  baked  moats  down- 
stairs. 

"  How  long  is  it,"  asked  Alice,  "  since  I  went  to  you 
and  told  you  what  I  had  done,  and  when  you  were  ad 
vised  it  was  too  late  for  any  one  to  follow  ? " 

**'^t  is  a  year  and  more,"  said  Harriet. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  269 

"A  year  and  more,"  said  Alice,  thoughtfully  intent 
npon  her  face.  "  Months  upon  months  since  you  brought 
me  here ! " 

Harriet  answered  "  Yes." 

"  Brought  me  here,  by  force  of  gentleness  and  kind- 
ness.  Me  !  "  said  Alice,  shrinking  with  her  face  behind 
the  hand,  "  and  made  me  human  by  woman's  looks  and 
words,  and  angel's  deeds  !  " 

Harriet  bending  over  her,  composed  and  soothed  licr. 
By  and  by  Alice  lying  as  before,  with  the  hand  against 
her  face,  asked  to  have  her  mother  called. 

Harriet  called  to  her  more  than  once ;  but  the  old 
woman  was  so  absorbed  looking  out  at  the  open  window 
on  the  darkness,  that  she  did  not  hear.  It  was  not  un- 
til Harriet  went  to  her  and  touched  her,  that  she  rose 
jp,  and  came. 

"  Mother,"  said  Alice,  taking  the  hand  again,  and  fix- 
ing her  lustrous  eyes  lovingly  upon  her  visitor,  while 
phe  merely  addressed  a  motion  of  her  finger  to  the  old 
woman,  "  tell  her  what  you  know." 

"  To-night,  my  deary  ?  " 

"  Ay,  mother  answered  Alice,  faintly  and  solemnly, 
"  to-night ! " 

The  old  woman,  whose  wits  appeared  disordered  by 
alai-m,  remorse,  or  grief,  came  creeping  along  the  side 
of  the  bed,  opposite  to  that  on  which  Harriet  sat ;  and 
kneeling  down,  so  as  to  bring  her  withered  face  upon 
a  level  with  the  coverlet,  and  stretching  out  her  haod, 
80  as  to  touch  her  daughter's  arm,  began : 

"  INIy  handsome  gal  "  — 

Heaven  what  a  cry  was  that,  with  which  she  stopped 
'here,  gazing  at  the  poor  tbrm  lying  on  the  bed  ! 

"  Changed,  long  ago,  mother  !     Withered,  long  ago.' 


260'  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

laid  Alice,  without  looking  at  her.  "  Don  t  grieve  for 
that  now." 

—  "  My  daughter,"  faltered  the  old  woman,  "  my  gal 
who'll  soon  get  better,  and  shame  'em  all  with  her  good 
looks." 

Alice  smiled  mournfully  at  Harriet,  and  fondled  her 
l:aud  a  little  closer,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Who'll  soon  get  better,  I  say,"  repeated  the  old 
woman,  menacing  the  vacant  air  with  her  shrivelled  fist, 
"  and  who'll  shame  'em  all  with  her  good  looks  —  she 
will.  I  say  she  will !  she  shall ! "  —  as  if  she  were  in 
passionate  contention  with  some  unseen  opponent  at  the 
bedside,  who  contradicted  her  —  "  my  daughter  has  been 
turned  away  from,  and  cast  out,  but  she  could  boast  re- 
lationship to  proud  folks  too,  if  she  chose.  Ah  !  To 
proud  folks !  Thei-e's  relationship  without  your  clergy 
and  your  wedding-rings  —  they  may  make  it,  but  they 
can't  break  it  —  and  my  daughter's  well  related.  Show 
me  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  I'll  show  you  my  Alice's  first 
cousin." 

Harriet  glanced  from  the  old  woman  to  the  lustrous 
eyes  intent  upon  her  face,  and  derived  corroboration 
from  them. 

"  What ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  her  nodding  head 
bridling  with  a  ghastly  vanity  ;  "  Though  I  am  old  and 
ugly  now,  —  much  older  by  life  and  habit  than  years 
though,  —  I  was  once  as  young  as  any.  Ah  !  as  pretty 
too,  as  many  !  I  was  a  fresh  country  wench  in  my  time, 
darling,"  stretching  out  her  arm  to  Harriet,  across  the 
bed,  "  and  looked  it,  too.  Down  in  my  country,  Mrs. 
Dombey's  father  and  his  brother  were  the  gayest  gentle- 
men and  the  best-liked  that  come  a-visiting  from  London 
—  they  have  long  been  dead,  though!  Lord,  Lord,  thia 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  261 

long  while!      The  brother,  who  was  my  Ally 3  father, 
longest  of  the  two." 

She  raised  her  head  a  little,  and  peered  at  her  daugh* 
ter's  face  ;  as  if  from  the  remembrance  of  her  own  youth 
she  had  flown  to  the  remembrance  of  her  child's.  Then 
suddenly,  she  laid  her  face  down  on  the  bed,  and  shut 
her  head  up  in  her  hands  and  arras. 

"  They  were  as  like,"  said  the  old  woman,  without** 
looking  up,  "  as  you  could  see  two  brothers,  so  near  an 
age  —  there  wasn't  much  more  than  a  year  between 
them,  as  I  recolleci  —  and  if  you  could  have  seen  my 
gal,  as  I  have  seen  her  once,  side  by  side  with  the  other's 
daughter,  you'd  have  seen,  for  all  the  difference  of  dress 
and  life,  tliat  they  were  like  each  other.  Oh !  is  the 
likeness  gone,  and  is  it  my  gal  —  only  my  gal  —  that's 
to  change  so ! " 

"  We  shall  all  change,  mother,  »in  our  turn,"  said 
Alice. 

"  Turn  ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  "  but  why  not  hers  as 
soon  as  my  gal's !  The  mother  must  have  changed  — 
she  looked  as  old  as  me,  and  full  as  wrinkled  through 
her  paint  —  but  she  was  handsome.  What  have  /  done, 
I,  what  have  1  done  worse  than  her,  that  only  my  gal  is 
to  lie  there  fading !  " 

With  another  of  those  wild  cries,  she  went  running 
out  into  the  room  from  which  she  had  come ;  but  imme- 
diately, in  her  uncertain  mood,  returned,  and  creeping 
>p  to  Harriet,  said : 

"  That's  what  Alice  bade  me  tell  you,  deary.  That's 
all.  I  found  it  out  when  I  began  to  ask  who  she  was, 
tnd  all  about  her,  away  in  Warwickshire  there,  one  sum- 
mer time.  Such  relations  was  no  good  to  me,  then. 
They  wouldn't  have  owned  me,  and  had  nothing  to  giva 


262  DOMBEY  AND  SOS. 

me.  1  should  have  asked  'em,  may  be,  for  a  little  money, 
afterwards,  if  it  hadn'i  been  for  ray  Alice ;  she'd  a'raost 
have  killed  me,  if  I  had,  I  think.  She  was  as  proud  as 
t'other  in  her  way,"  said  the  old  woman,  touching  the 
face  of  her  daughter  fearfully,  and  withdrawing  her.  hand, 
"  for  all  she's  so  quiet  now ;  but  she'll  shame  'em  with 
her  good  looks  yet.  Ha,  ha !  She'll  shame  'em,  will  my 
handsome  daughter ! " 

Her  laugh,  as  she  retreated,  was  worse  than  her  cry 
worse  than  the  burst  of  imbecile  lamentation  in  which  it 
ended  ;    worse  than  the  doting  air  with  which  she  sat 
down  in  her  old  seat,  and  stared  out  at  the  darkness. 

The  eyes  of  Alice  had  all  this  time  been  fixed  on 
Harriet,  whose  hand  she  had  never  released.  She  said 
now  : 

"  I  have  felt,  lying  here,  that  I  should  like  you  to 
know  this.  It  migjit  explain,  1  have  thought,  something 
that  used  to  help  to  harden  me.  I  had  heard  so  much, 
in  my  wrong-doing,  of  my  neglected  duty,  that  I  took  up 
with  the  belief  that  duty  had  not  been  done  to  me,  and 
that  as  the  seed  was  sown,  the  harvest  grew.  I  somehow 
made  it  out  that  when  ladies  had  bad  homes  and  mothers, 
they  went  wrong  in  their  way,  too ;  but  that  their  way 
was  not  so  foul  a  one  as  mine,  and  they  had  need  to  bless 
Grod  for  it.  That  is  all  past.  It  is  like  a  dream,  now, 
which  I  cannot  quite  remember  or  understand.  It  has 
J>een  more  and  more  like  a  dream,  every  day,  since  you 
began  to  sit  here,  and  to  read  to  me.  I  only  tell  it  you, 
Hs  I  can  recollect  it.  Will  you  read  to  me  a  little 
more  ?  " 

Harriet  was  withdrawing  her  hand  to  open  the  book, 
when  Alice  ietained  it  for  a  moment. 

**  You  will  not  forget  my  mother  ?     I  forgive  her,  if  ] 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Lave  any  cause.  I  know  that  she  for^'ives  me,  and  is 
sorry  in  her  heart.     You  will  nOt  forget  her  ?" 

*'  Never,  Alice  !  " 

**  A  moment  yet.  Lay  my  head  so,  dear,  that  as  yoa 
read,  I  may  see  the  words  in  your  kind  face." 

liairiet  complied  and  read  —  read  the  eternal  lx»k 
for  all  the  weary,  and  the  heavy-laden ;  for  all  the 
wretclied,  fallen,  and  neglected  of  this  earth  — read  the 
blessed  history,  in  which  the  blind,  lame,  palsied  beggar, 
the  criminal,  the  woman  stained  with  shame,  the  shunned 
of  all  our  dainty  clay,  has  eacii  a  portion,  that  no  imraan 
pride,  indifference,  or  sophistry  through  all  the  ages  that 
this  world  shall  last,  can  take  away,  or  by  the  thousandth 
atom  of  a  grain  reduce  —  read  the  ministry  of  Him,  who, 
through  the  round  of  human  life,  and  all  its  hopes  and 
griefs,  from  birth  to  death,  from  infancy  to  age,  had  sweet 
compassion  for,  and  interest  in,  its  every  scene  and  stage, 
its  every  suffering  and  sorrow. 

"  I  shall  come,"  said  Harriet,  when  she  shut  the  book, 
"very  early  in  the  morning." 

The  lustrous  eyes,  yet  fixed  upon  her  face,  closed  for  a 
moment,  then  opened  ;  and  Alice  kissed,  and  blest  her. 

The  same  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door ;  and  in  their 
light,  and  on  the  tranquil  face,  there  was  a  smile  when  it 
was  closed. 

They  never  turned  away.  She  laid  her  hand  upoD 
her  breast,  murmuring  the  sacred  name  tiiat  had  been 
read  to  her ;  and  life  passed  from  her  face,  like  light 
leraoved. 

Notliing  lay  there,  any  longer,  but  the  ruin  of  the 
mortal  house  on  which  the  rain  had  beaten,  and  th« 
black  hair  that  had  fluttered  in  the  wintry  wind. 


264  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 


CHAPTER   LIX. 


RETRIBUTION. 


Changes  have  come  again  upon  the  great  honse  in 
llie  long  dull  street,  once  the  scene  of  Florence's  child* 
hood  and  loneliness.  It  is  a  great  house  still,  proof 
against  wind  and  weather,  without  breaches  in  the  roof, 
or  sharttered  windows,  or  dilapidated  walls ;  but  it  is  a 
ruin  none  the  less,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

Mr.  Towlinson  and  company  are,  at  first,  incredulous 
in  respect  of  the  shapeless  rumors  that  they  hear. 
Cook  says  our  people's  credit  a'n't  so  easy  shook  as 
that  comes  to,  thank  God  ;  and  Mr.  Towlinson  expects 
to  hear  it  reported  next,  that  the  Bank  of  England's 
a-going  to  break,  or  the  jewels  in  the  Tower  to  be  sold 
up.  But,  next  come  the  Gazette,  and  Mr.  Perch :  and 
Mr.  Perch  brings  Mrs.  Perch  to  talk  it  over  in  the 
kitchen,  and  to  spend  a  pleasant  evening. 

As  soon  as  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  Mr.  Towlinsou's 
main  anxiety  is  that  the  failure  should  be  a  good  round 
una  —  not  less  than  a  hundred  thousand  pound.  Mr. 
Perch  don't  think  himself  that  a  hundred  thousand  pound 
will  nearly  cover  it.  The  women,  Jed  by  Mrs.  Perch 
and  cook,  often  repeat  "a  hun-dred  thou-sand  pound  ! " 
ivith  awful  satisfaction  —  as  if  handling  the  words  were 
like  handling  the  money ;  and  the  housemaid,  who  haa 
ter  eye  on  'Mx.  Towlinson,  wishes  she  had  only  a  bur*- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  265 

dredth  part  of  the  sum  to  bestow  on  the  man  of  her 
choice.  Mr.  Towliri.son,  still  mindful  of  his  old  wrong, 
opines  that  a  foreigner  would  hardly  know  what  to  do 
with  so  much  money,  unless  he  spent  it  on  his  whiskers  | 
which  bitter  sarcasm  causes  the  housemaid  to  withdraw 
ID  tears. 

But  not  to  riemain  long  absent ;  for  cook,  who  has  the 
reputation  of  being  extremely  good-hearted,  says  what- 
ever they  do,  let  'era  stand  by  one  another  now,  TowUh' 
son,  for  there's  no  telling  how  soon  they  may  be  divided 
They  have  been  in  that  house  (says  cook)  through  a 
funeral,  a  wedding,  and  a  running-away ;  and  let  it  not 
be  said  that  they  couldn't  agree  among  themselves  at 
such  a  time  as  the  present.  Mrs.  Perch  is  immensely 
affected  by  this  moving  address,  and  openly  remarks 
that  cook  is  an  angel.  Mr.  Towlinson  replies  to  cook, 
far  be  It  from  him  to  stand  in  the  way  of  tliat  good  feel- 
ing which  he  could  wish  to  see ;  and  adjournin;^  in  quest 
of  the  housemaid,  and  presently  returning  with  that 
young  lady  on  his  arm,  informs  the  kitchen  that  foreign- 
ers is  only  his  fun,  and  that  him  and  Anne  have  now 
ret^olved  to  take  one  another  for  better  for  worse,  and  to 
settle  in  Oxford  JNIarket  in  the  general  green  grocery 
and  herb  and  leech  line,  where  your  kind  favors  ia 
particular  requested.  This  announcement  is  received 
with  acclamation;  and  Mrs.  Perch,  projecting  her  soul 
into  futurity,  says,  "girls,"  in  cook's  ear,  in  a  solemn 
*.  hiiper. 

Misfortune  in  the  family  without  feasting,  in  these 
lower  regions,  couldn't  be.  Therefore  cook  tosses  up  a 
liot  dish  or  two  for  supper,  and  Mr.  Towlinson  com- 
oounds  a  lobster  salad  to  be  devoted  to  the  same  hos- 
pitable  purpose.     Even  Mrs.  Pipchin,  agitated  by  the 


266  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

occasion,  rings  her  bell,  and  sends  down  word  that  she 
requests  to  have  that  little  bit  of  sweet-bread  that  was 
left,  warmed  up  for  her  supper,  and  sent  to  her  on  a 
tray  with  about  a  quarter  of  a  tumbler-full  of  mulled 
sherry ;  for  she  feels  poorly. 

There  is  a  little  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  but  very 
little.  It  is  chiefly  speculation  as  to  how  long  he  has 
known  that  this  was  going  to  happen.  Cook  sayfl 
shrewdly,  "  Oh  a  long  time,  bless  you  1  Take  your 
oath  of  that."  And  reference  being  made  to  Mr.  Perch 
he  confirms  her  view  of  the  case.  Somebody  wonders 
what  he'll  do,  and  whether  he'll  go  out  in  aAy  situation. 
]\Ir.  Towlinson  thinks  not,  and  hints  at  a  refuge  in  one 
of  them  gen-teel  almshouses  of  the  better  kind.  "  Ah  ! 
where  he'll  have  his  little  garden  you  know,"  says  cook 
plaintively,  "  and  bring  up  sweet-peas  in  the  spring." 
"  Exactly  so,"  sjiys  Mr.  Towlinson,  "  and  be  one  of  tiie 
Brethren  of  something  or  another."  "  We  are  all 
brotliren,*  says  Mrs.  Perch,  in  a  pause  of  her  drink. 
"  Except  the  sisters,"  says  Mr.  Perch.  "  How  are  the 
mighty  fallen !  "  remarks  cook.  "  Pride  shall  have  a 
fall,  and  it  always  was  and  will  be  so ! "  observes  the 
housemaid. 

It  is  wonderful  how  good  they  feel,  in  making  these 
reflections ;  and  what  a  Christian  unanimity  they  are 
sensii)le  of,  in  bearing  the  common  shock  with  resigna- 
tion. There  is  only  one  interruption  to  this  excelleni 
state  of  mind,  which  is  occasioned  by  a  young  kitchen- 
maid  of  inferior  rank  —  in  black  stockings  —  who,  hav- 
ing sat  with  her  mouth  open  for  a  long  time,  unexpect 
edly  discharges  from  it  words  to  this  e.flTect,  "  Suppose 
Ihe  wages  shouldn't  be  paid ! "  The  company  sit  for  a 
moment  speechless ;  but  cook  recovering  first,  turns  upon 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  267 

the  young  woman,  and  requests  to  know  how  she  dareft 
insult  the  family  whose  hread  she  eats,  by  such  a  dishon* 
est  supposition,  and  whether  she  thinks  that  anybody, 
with  a  scrap  of  honor  left,  could  deprive  poor  servants 
of  their  pittance  ?  "  Because  if  that  is  your  religious 
feelings,  Mary  Daws,"  says  cook,  warmly,  "  1  don't  knew 
where  you  mean  to  go  to." 

Mr.  Towlinson  don't  know  either ;  nor  anybody ;  and 
the  young  kitchen-maid,  appearing  not  to  know  exactly 
herocli",  and  scouted  by  the  general  voice,  is  covered  with 
confusion,  as  with  a  garment. 

After  a  few  days,  strange  people  begin  to  call  at  the 
house,  and  to  make  appointments  with  one  another  in 
the  dining-room,  as  if  they  lived  there.  Especially  there 
is  a  gentleman,  of  a  Mosaic  Arabian  cast  of  countenance, 
with  a  very  massive  watch-guard,  who  whistles  in  flie 
drawing-room,  and,  while  he  is  waiting  for  the  other 
gentleman,  who  always  has  pen  and  ink  in  his  pocket, 
a.-ks  Mr.  Towlinson  (by  the  easy  name  of  "  Old  Cock,") 
it  he  happens  to  know  what  the  figure  of  them  crimson 
and  gold  hangings  might  have  been,  when  new  bought. 
The  callers  and  appointments  in  the  dining-room  become 
more  numerous  every  day,  and  every  gentleman  seemg 
to  have  pen  and  ink.  in  his  pocket,  and  to  have  some 
occasion  to  use  it.  At  last  it  is  said  that  there  is  going 
to  be  a  Sale ;  and  then  more  people  arrive,  with  pen  and 
ink  in  their  pockets,  commanding  a  detachment  of  men 
with  carpet  CJips,  who  immediately  begin  to  pull  up  the 
cariiets,  and  knock  the  furniture  about,  and  to  print  (»fl 
thousands  of  impressions  of  their  shoes  upon  the  IikII 
imd  staircase. 

The  council  down-stairs  are  in  full  conclave  all  this 
lime,  and,  having   nothing  to  do,  perform  perfect  feats 


268  DOMBET  AND  SOW. 

of  eating.  At  length  they  are  one  day  summoned  h 
a  body  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  room,  and  thus  addressed  bj 
the  fair  Peruvian : 

"  Your  master's  in  difficulties,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
tartly.     "  You  know  that,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Mr.  Towlinson,  as  spokesman,  admits  a  general  knowl 
edge  of  the  fact 

"  And  you're  all  on  the  look-out  for  yourselves,  1 
warrant  you,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  her  head  at 
them. 

A  shrill  voice  from  the  rear  exclaims,  '*  No  more  than 
yourself ! " 

"  That's  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Impudence,  is  it  ? "  says 
the  ireful  Pipchin,  looking  with  a  fiery  eye  over  the  in- 
termediate heads. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  it  is,"  replies  cook,  advancing. 
"  And  what  then,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  then  you  may  go  as  soon  as  you  like,"  says 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  The  sooner  the  better,  and  I  hope  I 
shall  never  see  your  face  again." 

With  this  the  doughty  Pipchin  produces  a  canvas  bag; 
und  tells  her  wages  out  to  that  day,  and  a  month  beyond 
it ;  and  clutches  the  money  tight,  until  a  receipt  for  the 
same  is  duly  signed,  to  the  last  up-stroke ;  when  she 
grudgingly  lets  it  go.  This  form  of  proceeding  Mrs. 
Pipchin  repeats  with  every  member  of  the  household, 
until  all  are  paid. 

'-  Now  those  that  choose,  can  go  about  their  business." 
^ays  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  those  that  choose  can  stay  here 
on  board  wages  for  a  week  or  so,  and  make  themselves 
useful.  Except,"  says  the  inflammable  Pipchin,  "that 
iilut  of  a  cook,  who'll  go  immediately." 

"  That,"  says  cook,  "  she  certainly  will !     I  wish  yoo 


DOMBEr  A>ro  SON.  26U 

good-day,  Mi-s.  Pipchin,  and  sinoeroly  wish  I  coild  com. 
pliment  you  on  the  sweetness  of  your  appearance  !  " 

"  Get  along  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  stampinj, 
her  foot. 

Cook  sails  off  with  an  air  of  beneficent  dignity,  highly 
exasperating  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  is  shortly  joined  below 
Btairs  by  the  rest  of  the  confederation. 

Mr.  Towlinson  then  says,  that,  in  the  first  pkce,  be 
would  beg  to  propose  a  little  snack  of  something  to  eat ; 
and  over  that  snack  would  desiie  to  offer  a  suggestion 
which  he  thinks  will  meet  the  position  in  which  they  find 
themselves.  The  refreshment  being  produced,  and  very 
heartily  partaken  of,  Mr.  Towlinson's  suggestion  is,  in 
effect,  that  cook  is  going,  and  that  if  we  are  not  true  to 
ourselves,  nobody  will  be  true  to  us.  That  they  have 
lived  in  that  house  a  long  time,  and  exerted  themselves 
very  much  to  be  sociable  together.  (At  this,  cook  says, 
with  emotion,  "  Hear,  hear ! "  and  Mrs.  Percli,  who  i.s 
there  again,  and  full  to  the  throat,  sheds  tears.)  And 
that  he  thinks,  at  the  present  time,  the  feeling  ought  to 
be  "  Go  one,  go  all !  "  The  house-maid  is  much  affected 
by  this  generous  sentiment,  and  warmly  seconds  it.  Cook 
says  she  feels  it's  right,  and  only  hopes  it's  not  done  aa 
a  compliment  to  her,  but  from  a  sense  of  duty.  Mr. 
Towlinson  replies,  from  a  sense  of  duty ;  and  that  now 
he  is  driven  to  express  his  opinions,  he  will  openly  say, 
that  he  does  not  tliink  it  over-respectable  to  remain  in 
a  liouse  where  Sales  and  sucli-like  are  carrying  'orwaiils. 
The  house-maid  is  sure  of  it ;  and  relates,  in  confirma- 
tion, that  a  strange  man,  in  a  carpet  cap,  offered,  tliis 
very  morning,  to  kiss  her  on  tiie  stairs.  Hereupon,  Mr. 
Towlinson  is  starting  from  his  chair,  to  seek  and  "smash" 
the  offender  :  when  he  is  laid  hold  on  by  the  lad'es.  who 


270  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

beseech  him  to  calm  himself,  and  to  reflect  that  it  id 
easier  and  wiser  to  leave  the  scene  of  such  indecencies 
at  once.  Mrs.  Perch,  presenting  the  case  in  a  new  light, 
even  shows  that  delicacy  towards  Mi*.  Dombey,  shut  up 
in  his  own  rooms,  imperatively  demands  precipitate  re- 
H"eat.  "For  what,"  says  the  good  woman,  "must  his 
feelings  be,  if  he  was  to  come  upon  any  of  the  poor 
servants  that  he  once  deceived  into  thinking  him  im- 
mensely rich ! "  Cook  is  so  struck  by  this  moral  con- 
sidei-ation,  that  Mrs.  Perch  improves  it  with  sevei*al 
pious  axioms,  original  and  selected.  It  becomes  a  clear 
ease  that  they  must  all  go.  Boxes  are  packed,  cabs 
fetched,  and  at  dusk*  that  evening  there  is  not  one  mem- 
ber of  the  party  left. 

The  house  stands,  large  and  weather-proof,  in  the 
long  dull  street ;  but  it  is  a  ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  from 
it. 

The  men  in  the  carpet  caps  go  on  tumbling  the  fur- 
niture about ;  and  the  gentlemen  with  the  pens  and  ink 
make  out  inventories  of  it,  and  sit  upon  pieces  of  furni- 
ture never  made  to  be  sat  upon,  and  eat  bread  and 
cheese  from  the  public-house  on  other  pieces  of  furniture 
never  made  to  be  eaten  on,  and  seem  to  l:ave  a  delight 
in  appropriating  precious  articles  to  strange  uses.  Cha- 
otic combinations  of  furniture  also  take  place.  Mai  tresses 
and  bedding  appear  in  the  dining-room  ;  the  glass  and 
china  get  into  the  conservatory ;  the  great  dinner-service 
is  set  out  in  heaps  on  the  long  divan  in  the  large  draw- 
ing-room ;  and  the  stair-wires,  made  into  fasces,  decorate 
the  marble  chimney-pieces.  Finally,  a  rug,  with  a 
urinted  bill  upon  it,  is  hung  out  from  he  balcony 
iund  a  similar  appendage  graces  either  side  of  the  halt 
ioor. 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  271 

Then,  all  day  long,  there  is  a  retinue  of  moxiMy  giga 
»nd  chaise-carts  in  the  street ;  and  henls  of  shabby  vam- 
pires, Jew  and  Cliristian,  overrun  the  iioutse,  sounding 
the  plate-glass  mirrors  with  their  knuckles,  striking  dis- 
cordant octaves  on.  the  grand  piano,  drawing  wet  lore- 
lingers  over  the  pictures,  breathing  on  the  blades  of  the 
best  dinner-knives,  punching  the  squabs  of  chairs  and 
sofas  with  their  dirty  fists,  touzling  the  fealher-beds, 
opening  and  shutting  all  the  di-awers,  balancing  the 
silver  sjx)ons  and  forks,  locking  into  the  very  tiireads 
of  the  drapery  and  linen,  and  disparaging  everything. 
There  is  not  a  secret  place  in  the  whole  house.  Fluffy 
and  snuffy  strangers  stare  into  the  kitchen-range  as 
curiously  as  into  the  attic  clothes-press.  Stout  men  with 
napless  hats  on,  look  out  of  the  bedroom  windows,  and 
cut  jokes  with  friends  in  the  street.  Quiet,  calculating 
spirits  withdraw  into  the  dressing-rooms  with  catalogues, 
and  make  marginal  notes  thereon,  Avith  stumps  of  pencils. 
Two  brokers  invade  the  very  fire-escape,  and  take  a 
panoramic  survey  of  the  neighborhood  from  the  top  of 
the  house.  The  swarm  and  buzz,  and  going  up  and 
down,  endure  for  days.  The  Capitiil  Modern  House- 
hold Furniture,  &c.,  is  on  view. 

Then  there  is  a  palisade  of  tables  made  in  the  best 
drawing-room ;  and  on  the  capital,  french-polished,  ex- 
tending, telescopic  range  of  Spanish  mahogany  dining- 
tables  with  turned  legs,  the  pulpit  of  the  Auctioneer  is 
erected ;  and  the  herds  of  shabby  vampires,  Jew  and 
Christian,  the  strangers  fluffy  and  snuff}',  and  the  stout 
men  with  the  napbss  hats,  congregate  about  it  and  sit 
upon  everything  within  reach,  mantel-pieces  included, 
and  begin  to  bid.  Hot,  humming,  and  dusty,  are  th« 
rooms   all  day;  and  —  high  above  the  heat,  hum,  and 


272  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

Hu^!t  —  the  head  and  shoulders,  voice  and  hammer,  of 
the  Auctioneer,  are  ever  at  work.  The  men  in  the  car- 
pet caps  get  flustered  and  vicious,  with  tumbling  the 
Lots  about,  and  still  the  Lots  are  going,  going,  gone ; 
Btill  coming  on.  Sometimes  there  is.  joking  and  a  gen- 
eral roar.  This  lasts  all  day  and  three  days  following. 
ITie  Capital  IModern  Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  on  sale. 

Then  the  mouldy  gigs  and  chaise-carts  reappear  ;  and 
with  them  come  spring-vans  and  wagons,  and  an  army 
of  porters  with  knots.  All  day  long,  the  men  with  car- 
pet caps  are  screwing  at  screw-drivers  and  bed-winches, 
or  staggering  by  the  dozen  together  on  the  staircase  un- 
der heavy  burdens,  or  upheaving  perfect  rocks  of  Span- 
ish mahogany,  best  rosewood,  or  plate-glass,  into  the 
gigs  and  chaise-carts,  vans  and  wagons.  All  sorts  of 
vehicles  of  burden  are  in  attendance,  from  a  tilted  wagon 
to  a  wheel-barrow.  Poor  Paul's  little  bedstead  is  car- 
ried off  in  a  donkey-tandem.  For  nearly  a  whole  week 
the  Capital  Modem  Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  in 
course  of  removal. 

At  last  it  is  all  gone.  Nothing  is  left  about  the  house 
but  scattered  leaves  of  catalogues,  littered  scraps  of  straw 
and  hay,  and  a  battery  of  pewter  pots  behind  the  hall- 
door.  The  men  with  the  carpet  caps  gather  up  their 
screw-drivers  and  bed-winches  into  bags,  shoulder  them, 
and  walk  off.  One  of  the  pen  and  ink  gentlemen  goes 
over  the  house  as  a  last  attention  ;  sticking  up  bills  in 
the  windows  respecting  the  lease  of  this  desirable  family 
niniision.  and  shutting  the  shutters.  At  length  he  follows 
the  men  with  the  carpet  caps.  None  of  the  invaders 
remain.     The  house  is  a  ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  apartments,  together  with  those  locked 
rooms  on  the  ground-floor  where  tho  window-blinds  are 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  273 

drawn  down  cIojg,  have  been  spared  the  general  devasta- 
tion. Mrs.  Pipchin  has  remained  austere  and  stony 
duiiiig  the  procet  dings,  in  her  own  room  ;  or  has  occa- 
Bioiially  looked  in  at  the  sale  to  see  what  the  goods  arc 
fetching,  and  to  bid  for  one  particular  easy-cliair,  Mrs 
Pipchin  has  been  the  highest  bidder  for  the  easy-chair 
and  sits  upon  her  property  when  Mrs.  Chick  comes  t* 
Bee  her. 

*'  How  is  my  brother,  Mrs.  Pipchin?"  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  I  don't  know  any  more  than  the  deuce,"  says  Mrd. 
Pipchin.  "  He  never  does  me  the  honor  to  speak  to  me. 
He  has  his  meat  and  drink  put  in  the  next  room  to  hia 
own ;  and  what  he  takes,  he  comes  out  and  takes  when 
there's  nobody  there.  It's  no  use  asking  me.  I  know 
no  more  about  him  than  the  man  in  the  south  who  burnt 
his  mouth  by  eating  cold  plum-porridge." 

This  the  acrimonious  Pipchin  says  with  a  flounce. 

"  But  good  gracious  me ! "  cries  Mrs.  Chick  blandly, 
"  How  long  is  this  to  last !  If  my  brother  will  not  make 
an  effort,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  what  is  to  become  of  him  ?  I 
am  sure  I  should  have  thought  he  had  seen  enough  of 
the  consequences  of  not  making  an  effort,  by  this  time,  to 
be  warned  against  that  fatsil  error." 

"  Hoity  toity  !  "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rubbing  her  nose. 
"  There's  a  great  fuss,  I  tiiink,  about  it.  It  a'n't  so  won- 
derful a  case.  People  have  had  misfortunes  before  now, 
and  been  obliged  to  part  with  their  furniture.  I'm  sure 
/  have  ! " 

"  My  brother,"  pursues  Mrs.  Chick  profoundly,  "  is  so 
peculiar  —  so  strange  a  man.  He  is  the  most  peculiar 
man  /ever  saw.  Would  any  one  believe  that  when  he 
received  news  of  the  marriage  and  emigration  of  that 
innatural  child  —  it's  a  comfort  to  me,  now,  to  remero- 

VOL.  IV.  18 


274  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

ber  that  T  always  said  there  was  something  extraordinary 
about  that  child  :  but  nobody  minds  me  —  would  any 
body  believe,  1  say,  that  he  should  then  turn  round  upon 
me  and  say  he  had  supposed,  from  my  manner,  that  she 
had  come  to  my  house  ?  Why,  my  gracious !  And 
would  anybody  believe  that  when  I  merely  say  to  him 
'  Paul,  I  may  be  very  foolish,  and  I  have  no  doubt  I  am, 
but  I  cannot  understand  how  your  affairs  can  have  got 
into  this  state,'  he  should  actually  fly  at  me,  and  request 
that  I  will  come  to  see  him  no  more  until  he  tsks  me ! 
Why,  my  goodness !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  It's  a  pity  he  hadn't  a 
little  more  to  do  with  mines.  They'd  have  tried  bis 
temper  for  him." 

"  And  what,"  resumes  Mrs.  Chick,  quite  regardless  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  observations,  "  is  it  to  end  in  ?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know.  What  does  my  brother  mean  to 
do  ?  He  must  do  something.  It's  of  no  use  remaining 
shut  up  in  his  own  rooms.  Business  won't  come  to  him. 
No.  He  must  go  to  it.  Then  why  don't  he  go !  He 
knows  where  to  go,  I  suppose,  having  been  a  man  of 
business  all  his  life.  Very  good.  Then  why  not  go 
there  ? " 

Mrs.  Chick,  after  forging  this  powerful  chain  of  rea 
eoning,  remains  silent  for  a  minute  to  admire  it. 

"  Besides,"  says  the  discreet  lady,  with  an  argumenta- 
tive air,  "  who  ever  heard  of  such  obstinacy  as  his  stay- 
ing shut  up  here  through  all  these  dreadful  disagreea- 
bles ?  It's  not  as  if  there  was  no  place  for  him  to  go  to. 
Of  course,  he  could  have  come  to  our  house.  He  knows 
be  is  at  home  there,  I  suppose  ?  Mr.  Chick  has  per- 
■ectly  bored  about  it,  and  I  said  with  my  own  lips,  '  Why, 
lureiy,  Paul,  you  don't  imagine  that  because  your  affairs 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  276 

have  got  into  this  state,  you  are  the  less  at  home  to  such 
near  relatives  as  ourselves  ?  You  don't  imagine  that  we 
are  like  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  '  But  no ;  here  he  staya 
all  through,  and  here  he  is.  Why,  good  gracious  me, 
suppose  the  house  was  to  be  let!  what  would  he  do 
then  ?  He  couldn't  remain  here,  then.  If  he  attempted 
to  do  so,  there  would  be  an  ejectment,  an  action  for  Doe, 
and  all  sorts  of  things ;  and  then  he  mwt  go.  Then 
why  not  go  at  first  instead  of  at  'last  ?  And  that  brings 
nae  back  to  what  I  said  just  now,  and  I  naturally  ask 
what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  what's  to  be  the  end  of  it,  as  far  as  7  am 
concerned,"  replies  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  that's  enough  for 
me.     I'm  going  to  take  myself  of  in  a  jifFy." 

"  In  a  which,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  In  a  jiffy,"  retorts  Mrs.  Pipchin  sharply. 

"  Ah,  well !  really  I  can't  blame  you,  Mrs.  Pipchin," 
says  Mrs.  Chick  with  frankness. 

"  It  would  be  pretty  much  the  same  to  me,  if  you 
could,"  replies  the  sardonic  Pipchin.  "  At  any  rate  I'm 
going.  I  can't  stop  here.  I  should  be  dead  in  a  week. 
1  had  to  cook  my  own  pork-chop  yesterday,  and  I'm  not 
used  to  it.  My  constitution  will  be  giving  way  next. 
Besides  I  had  a  very  fair  connection  at  Brighton  when  I 
came  here  —  little  Pankey's  folks  alone  were  worth  a 
good  eighty  pounds  a  year  to  rae  —  and  I  can't  afford  to 
throw  it  away.  I've  written  to  my  niece,  and  she  ex- 
pects me  by  this  time." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  my  brother  ? "  inquires  Mrs. 
Chick. 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  very  easy  to  say  spr^ak  to  him,"  retorts 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  How  is  it  done  !  I  called  out  to  him 
yesterday,  that  I  was  no  use  here,  and  that  he  had  bettoi 


276  DOMBET  AND  SOW. 

let  me  send  for  Mrs.  Richards.  He  grunted  someihing 
or  other  that  meant  yes,  and  I  sent.  Grunt  indeed !  If 
be  had  been  Mr.  Pipchin,  he'd  have  had  some  reason  to 
grunt.     Yah  !     I've  no  patience  with  it !  " 

Here  this  exemplary  female,  who  has  pumped  up  so 
much  fortitude  and  virtue  from  the  depths  of  the  Peru- 
vian mines,  rises  from  her  cushioned  property  to  see 
Mrs.  Chick  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Chick,  deploring  to  the 
last  the  peculiar  character  of  her  brother,  noiselessly  re- 
tires, much  occupied  with  her  own  sagacity  and  clearnesa 
of  head. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  Mr.  Toodle,  being  off  duty, 
arrives  with  Polly  and  a  box,  and  leaves  them,  with  a 
sounding  kiss,  in  the  hall  of  the  empty  house,  the  retired 
character  of  which  affects  Mr.  Toodle's  spirits  strongly. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Polly  my  dear,"  says  Mr.  Toodle, 
"  Being  now,  an  ingein-driver,  and  well  to  do  in  the 
world,  I  shouldn't  allow  of  your  coming  here,  to  be  made 
dull-like,  if  it  warn't  for  favors  past.  But  favors  past, 
Polly,  is  never  to  be  forgot.  To  them  which  is  in  adver- 
sity, besides,  your  face  is  a  cord'l.  So  let's  have  another 
kiss  on  it,  my  dear.  You  wish  no  better  than  to  do  a 
right  act,  I  know  ;  and  ray  views  is,  that  it's  right  and 
dutiful  to  do  this.     Good-night,  Polly  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin  by  this  time  looms  dark  in  her  black 
bombazine  skirts,  black  bonnet,  and  shawl ;  and  has  her 
personal  property  packed  up ;  and  has  her  chair  (late  a 
favorite  chair  of  Mr.  Dombey's,  and  the  dead  bargain  of 
the  sale)  ready  near  the  street-door ;  and  is  only  waiting 
for  a  fly  van,  going  to-night  to  Brighton  on  private  ser- 
vice, which  is  to  call  for  her,  by  private  contract,  and 
convey  her  home. 

Presently  it  comes.     Mrs.  Pipchin's  wardrobe  being 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  277 

tandfed  in  and  ?towed  away,  Mrs.  Pipchin's  chair  m  nexi 
handed  in,  and  placed  in  a  convenient  corner  among  cer- 
tain trusses  of  hay ;  it  being  the  intention  of  the  amiable 
woman  to  occupy  the  chair  during  her  journey.  Mrs. 
Fipchin  herself  is  next  handed  in,  and  grindy  takes  her 
Beat.  There  is  a  snaky  gleam  in  her  hard  gray  eye,  as 
of  anticipated  rounds  of  buttered  toast,  relays  of  hot 
chops,  worryings  and  quellings  of  young  children,  sharp 
snappings  at  poor  Berry,  and  all  the  other  delights  of 
her  Ogress's  castle.  Mrs.  Pipchin  almost  laughs  as  the 
fly  van  diives  off,  and  she  composes  her  black  bombazine 
skirts,  and  settles  herself  among  the  cushions  of  her  easy- 
chair. 

The  house  is  such  a  ruin  that  the  rats  have  fled,  and 
there  is  not  one  left. 

But  Polly,  though  alone  in  the  deserted  mansion  — 
for  there  is  no  companionship  in  the  shut-up  rooms  in 
which  its  late  master  hides  his  head  —  is  not  alone 
long.  It  is  night  ;  and  she  is  sitting  at  work  in  the 
house-keeper's  room,  trying  to  forget  what  a  lonely  house 
it  is,  and  what  a  history  belongs  to  it ;  when  there  is  a 
knock  at  the  hall-door,  as  loud  sounding  as  any  knock 
can  be,  striking  into  such  an  empty  place.  Opening  it, 
she  returns  across  the  echoing  hall,  accompanied  by  a 
female  figure  in  a  close  black  bonnet.  It  is  Miss  Tox, 
and  Miss  Tox's  eyes  are  red. 

«0h,  Polly,"  says  Miss  Tox,  "when  I  locked  into 
have  a  little  lesson  with  the  children  just  now,  I  got  the 
message  that  you  left  for  me ;  and  as  soon  as  I  could 
recover  my  spirits  at  all,  I  came  on  after  you.  It 
Jicre  no  one  here,  but  you  ? " 

"  Ah  !  not  a  soul,"  says  Polly. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  "  whispers  Miss  Tox. 


278  DOMBEY  AKD  SON. 

"  Bless  you,"  returns  Polly,  "  no ;  he  has  not  been 
seen  this  many  a  day.  They  tell  me  he  never  leaves 
his  room." 

"  Is  he  said  to  be  ill  ?  "  inquires  Miss  Tox. 

''No,  ma'am,  not  that  I  know  of,"  returns  Pollys 
"  except  in  his  mind.  He  must  be  very  bad  there^ 
poor  gentleman ! " 

Miss  Tox's  sympathy  is  such  that  she  can  scarc-ely 
speak.  She  is  no  chicken,  but  she  has  not  grown  tough 
with  age  and  celibacy.  Her  heart  is  very  tender,  her 
compassion  very  genuine,  her  homage  very  real.  Be- 
neath the  locket  with  the  fishy-eye  in  it,  Miss  Tox  bears 
better  qualities  than  many  a  less  whimsical  outside ;  such 
qualities  as  will  outlive,  by  many  courses  of  the  sun,  the 
best  outsides  and  brightest  husks  that  fall  in  the  harvest 
of  the  Great  Reaper. 

It  is  long  before  Miss  Tox  goes  away,  and  before 
Polly,  with  a  candle  flaring  on  the  blank  stairs,  looks 
after  her,  for  company,  down  the  street,  and  feels  unwill- 
ing to  go  back  into  the  dreary  house,  and  jar  its  empti- 
ness with  the  heavy  fastenings  of  the  door,  and  glide 
away  to  bed.  But  all  this  Polly  does  ;  and  in  the  morn- 
ing sets  in  one  of  those  darkened  rooms  such  matters  as 
she  has  been  advised  to  prepare,  and  then  retires  and 
enters  them  no  more  until  next  morning  at  the  same 
hour.  There  are  bells  there,  but  they  nev^r  ring ;  and 
though  she  can  sometimes  hear  a  foot-fall  gonig  to  and 
fro,  it  never  comes  out. 

Miss  Tox  returns  early  in  the  day.  It  theu  begins  to 
be  Miss  Tox's  occupation  to  prepare  little  dainties  —  or 
what  are  such  to  her  —  to  be  carried  into  these  rooms 
next  morning.  She  derives  so  much  satisfacMon  from 
the  pursuit,  that  she  enters  on  it  regularly  from   that 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  279 

rime ;  and  brings  daily  in  her  little  basket,  various  choice 
oondiments  selected  from  the  scanty  stores  of  the  deceased 
owner  of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail.  She  likewise 
brings,  in  sheets  of  curl  paper,  morsels  of  cold  meata, 
tongues  of  sheep,  halves  of  fowls,  for  her  own  dinner 
and  sharing  these  collations  with  Polly,  passes  the 
greater  part  of  her  time  in  the  ruined  house  that  the 
rats  have  fled  from :  hiding,  in  a  fright  at  every  sound, 
Btealing  in  and  out  like  a  criminal ;  only  desiring  to  be 
true  to  the  fallen  object  of  her  admiration,  unknown 
to  him,  unknown  to  all  the  world  but  one  poor  simple 
woman. 

The  major  knows  it ;  but  no  one  is  the  wiser  for  that, 
though  the  major  is  much  the  merrier.  The  major,  in  a 
dt  of  curiosity,  has  charged  the  native  to  watch  the  house 
sometimes,  and  find  out  what  becomes  of  Dombey.  The 
native  has  reported  Miss  Tox's  fidelity,  and  the  major 
has  nearly  choked  himself  dead  with  laughter.  He  is  per- 
manently bluer  from  that  hour,  and  constantly  wheezes 
to  himself,  his  lobster  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head, 
••  Damme,  sir,  the  woman's  a  born  idiot ! " 

And  the  ruined  man.  How  does  he  pass  the  hours, 
Aloue  ? 

••  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  ! " 
He  did  remember  it.  It  was  heavy  on  his  mind  now  ; 
heavier  than  all  the  rest. 

'•  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come. 
The  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof,  the  wind  that  mouma 
OuUiide  the  door,  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  mel 
ancholy  sound.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  yeara 
to  come ! " 

He  did  remember  it.  In  the  miserable  night  ho 
thought  of  it ;   in  the  dreary  day,  the  wretched   dawn, 


280  DOMBEY  AND  SO^T. 

the  ghostly,  memory-haunted  twilight.  He  did  remera- 
bar  it.  In  agony,  in  sorrow,  in  remorse,  in  despair 
"  Papa  !  papa !  Speak  to  me,  dear  papa  ! "'  He  heard 
the  words  again,  and  saw  the  face.  He  saw  it  fall  apon 
the  trembling  hands,  and  heard  the  one  prolonged  low 
cry  go  upward. 

He  was  fallen,  never  to  be  raised  up  any  more.  For 
Ihe  night  of  his  worldly  ruin  there  was  no  to-morrow'fi 
Bun  ;  for  the  stain  of  his  domestic  shame  there  was  no 
purification  ;  nothing,  thank  Heaven,  could  bring  bis 
dead  child  back  to  life.  But  that  which  he  might  have 
made  so  different  in  all  the  past  —  which  might  have 
made  the  past  itself  so  different,  though  this  he  hardly 
thought  of  now  —  that  which  was  his  own  work,  that 
which  he  could  so  easily  have  wrought  into  a  blessing, 
and  had  set  himself  so  steadily  for  years  to  form  into  a 
curse :  that  was  the  sharp  grief  of  his  soul. 

Oh !  He  did  remember  it !  The  rain  that  fell  upon 
the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourned  outside  the  door  that 
night,  had  had  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy  sound. 
He  knew,  now,  what  he  had  done.  He  knew,  now,  that 
he  had  called  down  that  upon  his  head,  which  bowed  it 
lower  than  the  heaviest  stroke  of  fortune.  He  knew, 
now,  what  it  was  to  be  rejected  and  deserted ;  nc  w,  when 
every  loving  blossom  he  had  withered  in  his  mnocent 
daughter's  heart  was  snowing  down  in  ashes  on  him. 

He  thought  of  her,  as  she  had  been  that  night  when 
he  and  his  bride  came  home.  He  thought  of  her  as  she 
had  been,  in  all  the  home-events  of  the  abandoned  house. 
He  thought,  now,  that  of  all  around  him,  she  alone  had 
ne\er  changed.  His  boy  had  faded  into  dust,  his  proud 
wife  had  sunk  into  a  polluted  creature,  his  flatterer  and 
friend  had  been  transformed  into  the  worst  of  villains, 


DOMBET   AND   SON.  881 

bis  riches  had  melted  away,  the  very  walls  that  sheltered 
hira  looked  on  him  as  a  stranger ;  she  alone  Iiad  turned 
the  same  mild  gentle  look  upon  him  always.  Yes,  to  the 
latest  and  the  last.  She  had  never  changed  to  him  — 
nor  had  he  ever  changed  to  her  —  and  she  was-  lost. 

As,  one  by  one,  they  fell  away  before  his  mind  —  hia 
baby-hope,  his  wife,  his  friend,  his  fortune  —  oh  how  the 
mist,  through  which  he  had  seen  her,  cleared,  and  showed 
him  her  true  self!  Oh,  how  much  better  than  this  that 
he  had  loved  her  as  he  had  his  boy,  and  lost  her  as  he 
had  his  boy,  and  laid  them  in  their  early  grave  together! 

In  his  pride  —  for  he  was  proud  yet  —  he  let  the 
world  go  from  him  freely.  As  it  fell  away,  he  shook  it 
off.  Whether  he  imagined  its  face  as  expressing  pity  for 
him,  or  indifference  to  him,  he  shunned  it  alike.  It  was 
m  the  same  degree  to  be  avoided,  in  either  aspect.  He 
had  no  idea  of  any  one  companion  in  his  misery,  but  the 
one  he  had  driven  away.  What  he  would  have  said  to 
her,  or  what  consolation  submitted  to  receive  from  her, 
he  never  pictured  to  himself.  But  he  always  knew  sho 
would  have  been  true  to  hira,  if  he  had  suffered  her. 
He  always  knew  she  would  have  loved  him  better  now, 
than  at  any  other  time  :  he  was  as  certain  that  it  was  in 
her  nature,  as  he  was  that  there  was  a  sky  above  him; 
and  he  sat  thinking  so,  in  his  loneliness,  from  hour  to 
hour.  Day  after  day  uttered  this  speech  ;  night  after 
light  showed  him  this  knowledge. 

It  began,  beyond  all  doubt  (however  slowly  it  ad- 
vanced for  some  time),  in  the  receipt  of  her  young  hus- 
band's letter,  and  the  certainty  that  she  was  gone.  And 
yet  —  so  proud  he  was  in  his  ruin,  or  so  reminiscent  of 
her  only  as  something  that  might  have  been  bis.  but  waa 
lost  beyond  redemption  —  that  if  he  could  have  heard 


f82  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

her  voice  in  an  adjoining  room,  he  would  not  have  gon€ 
to  her.  If  he  could  have  seen  her  in  the  street,  and  she 
had  done  no  more  than  look  at  hira  as  she  had  been  used 
to  look,  he  would  have  passed  on  with  his  old  told  unfor- 
giving face,  and  not  addressed  her,  or  relaxed  it,  though 
his  heart  should  have  broken  soon  afterwards.  However 
turlulent  his  thoughts,  or  harsh  his  anger  had  been,  at 
first,  corceniiiig  her  marriage,  or  her  husband,  that  was 
all  past  now.  He  chiefly  thought  of  what  might  have 
been,  and  what  was  not.  What  was,  was  all  summed  up 
in  this  :  that  she  was  lost,  and  he  bowed  down  with  sor- 
row and  remorse. 

And  now  he  felt  that  he  had  had  two  children  born  to 
hira  in  that  house,  and  that  between  him  and  the  bare 
wide  empty  walls  there  was  a  tie,  mournful,  but  hard 
to  rend  asunder,  connected  with  a  double  childhood,  and 
a  double  loss.  He  had  thought  to  leave  the  house  — 
knowing  he  must  go,  not  knowing  whither  —  upon  the 
evening  of  the  day  on  which  this  feeling  first  struck  root 
in  his  breast ;  but  he  resolved  to  stay  another  night,  and 
in  the  night  to  ramble  through  the  rooms  once  more. 

He  came  out  of  his  solitude  when  it  was  the  dead  of 
night,  and  with  a  candle  in  his  hand  went  softly  up  the 
stairs.  Of  all  the  footmarks  there,  making  them  as  com- 
mon as  the  common  street,  there  was  not  one,  he  thought, 
but  had  seemed  at  the  time  to  set  itself  upon  his  brain 
while  he  had  kept  close,  listening.  He  looked  at  their 
number,  and  their  hurry,  and  contention,  —  foot  tread 
ing  foot  out,  and  upward  track  and  downward  jostling 
one  another  —  and  thought,  with  absolute  dread  and 
wonder,  how  much  he  must  have  suffered  during  that 
trial,  and  what  a  changed  man  he  had  cause  to  be.  He 
thought,  besides,  oh  was  there,  somewhere  in  the  world. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  283 

A  light  footstep  that  might  have  worn  out  in  a  moment 
half  those  marks  !  —  and-  bent  his  head,  and  wept  as  he 
went  up. 

He  almost  saw  it,  going  on  before.  He  stopped,  look- 
ing up  towards  the  skylight;  and  a  figure,  childish  itself, 
but  carrying  a  child,  and  singing  as  it  went,  seemed  to  be 
there  again.  Anon,  it  was  the  same  figure,  alone,  stop- 
ping for  an  instant,  with  suspended  breath  ;  the  bright 
hair  clustering  loosely  round  its  tearful  face ;  and  look- 
ing back  at  him. 

He  wandered  through  the  rooms  :  lately  so  luxurious ; 
now  so  bare  and  dismal  and  so  changed,  apparently,  even 
in  their  shape  and  size.  The  press  of  footsteps  was  as 
thick  here  ;  and  the  same  consideration  of  the  suffering 
he  had  had,  perplexed  and  terrified  him.  He  began 
to  fear  that  all  this  intricacy  in  his  brain  would  drive 
him  mad ;  and  that  his  thoughts  already  lost  coherence 
as  the  footprints  did,  and  were  pieced  on  to  one  an- 
other, with  the  same  trackless  involutions,  and  varieties 
of  indistinct  shapes. 

He  did  not  so  much  as  know  in  which  of  these  rooms 
she  had  lived,  when  she  was  alone.  He  was  glad  to 
leave  them,  and  go  wandering  higher  up.  Abundance 
of  associations  were  here,  connected  with  his  false  wife, 
his  false  friend  and  servant,  his  false  grounds  of  pride ; 
but  he  put  them  all  by  now,  and  only  recalled  miserably, 
.veakly,  fondly,  his  two  children. 

Everywhere,  the  footsteps  !  They  had  had  no  respect 
for  the  old  room  high  up,  where  the  little  bed  had  been ; 
he  could  hardly  find  a  clear  space  there,  to  throw  him- 
self down,  on  the  floor,  against  the  wall,  poor  broken 
man,  and  let  his  tears  flow  as  they  would.  He  had 
?hed  so  many  tears    here,   long   ago,   that  he  was   lesr 


284  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ashamed  of  his  weakness  in  this  place  than  in  any  otbex 
—  perhaps,  with  that  consciousness,  had  made  excuse! 
to  himself  for  coming  here.  Here,  with  stooping  shoul- 
ders and  his  chin  dropped  on  his  breast,  he  had  come. 
Here,  thrown  upon  the  bare  boards,  in  the  dead  of  night, 
he  wept,  alone  —  a  proud  man,  even  tlien  ;  who,  if  a 
kind  hand  could  have  been  stretched  out,  or  a  kind  face 
oould  have  looked  in,  would  have  risen  up,  and  turned 
ftway,  and  gone  down  to  his  cell. 

When  the  day  broke  he  was  shut  up  in  his  rooms 
again.  He  had  meant  to  go  away  to-day,  but  clung  to 
this  tie  in  the  house  as  the  last  and  only  thing  lel't  to 
him.  He  would  go  to-morrow.  To-morrow  came.  He 
would  go  to-morrow.  Every  night,  within  the  knowl- 
edge of  no  human  creature,  he  came  forth,  and  wandered 
through  the  despoiled  house  like  a  ghost.  Many  a  morn- 
ing when  the  day  broke,  his  altered  face,  drooping  be- 
hind the  closed  blind  in  his  window,  imperfectly  ti'ans- 
parent  to  the  light  as  yet,  pondered  on  the  loss  of  his 
two  children.  It  was  one  child  no  more.  He  reunited 
them  in  his  thoughts,  and  they  were  never  asunder. 
Oh,  that  he  could  have  united  them  in  his  past  love, 
and  in  death,  and  that  one  had  not  been  so  much  worse 
than  dead ! 

Strong  mental  agitation  and  disturbance  was  no  nov- 
elty to  him,  even  before  his  late  sufferings.  It  never 
IB  to  obstinate  and  sullen  natures;  for  they  struggle 
hard  to  be  such.  Ground,  long  undermined,  will  often 
fall  down  in  a  moment ;  what  was  undermined  here  in 
BO  many  ways,  weakened,  and  crumbled,  little  by  little, 
more  and  more,  as  the  hand  moved  on  the  dial. 
•  At  last  he  began  to  think  he  need  not  go  at  all.  He 
might  yet  give  up  what  his  creditors    had   spared  liim 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  284 

(that  they  had  not  spared  him  more,  was  his  own  act), 
and  only  sever  the  tie  between  him  and  the  ruined  hooae, 
by  severing  that  other  link  — 

It  was  then  that  his  footfall  was  audible  in  the  late 
house-keeper's  room,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro ;  but  not 
audible  in  its  true  meaning,  or  it  would  have  had  an 
appalling  sound. 

The  world  was  very  busy  and  restless  about  him. 
He  became  aware  of  that  again.  It  was  whispering 
and  babbling.  It  was  never  quiet.  This,  and  the  intri- 
cacy and  complication  of  the  footsteps,  harassed  him  to 
death.  Objects  began  to  take  a  bleared  and  russet  color 
in  his  eyes.  Dombey  and  Son  was  no  more  —  his 
children  no  more.  This  mast  be  thought  of,  well,  to- 
morrow. 

He  thought  of  it  to-morrow ;  and  sitting  thinking  in 
his  chair,  saw,  in  the  glass,  from  time  to  time,  this 
picture : 

A  spectral,  haggard,  wasted  likeness  of  himself, 
brooded  and  brooded  over  the  empty  fireplace.  Now 
it  lifted  up  its  head,  examining  the  lines  and  hollows 
in  its  face ;  now  hung  it  down  again,  and  brooded  afresh. 
Now  it  rose  and  walked  about  ;  now  passed  into  the 
next  room,  and  came  back  with  something  from  the 
dressing-table  in  its  breast.  Now,  it  was  looking  at  the 
bottom  of  the  door,  and  thinking. 

—  Hush!  what? 

It  was  thinking  that  if  blood  were  to  trickle  that  way, 
and  to  leak  out  into  the  hall,  it  must  be  a  lorg  time 
going  so  far.  It  would  move  so  stealthily  and  slowly, 
creeping  on,  with  here  a  lazy  little  pool,  and  there  a 
Btart,  and  then  another  little  pool,  that  a  desperately 
wounded   man    could    only    be    discovered    through    its 


286  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

means,  either  dead  or  dying.  When  it  had  thought  of 
this  a  long  while,  it  got  up  again,  and  walked  to  and 
fro 'with  its  iiand  in  its  breast.  He  glanced  at  it  oc- 
casionally, very  curious  to  watch  its  motions,  and  he 
marked  how  wicked  and  murderous  that  hand  looked. 

Now  it  was  thinking  again  !     What  was  it  thinking? 

Whether  they  would  tread  in  the  blood  when  it  ciept 
BO  Tar,  and  carry  it  about  the  house  among  those  many 
prints  of  feet,  or  even  out  into  the  street. 

It  sat  down,  with  its  eyes  upon  the  empty  fireplace, 
and  as  it  lost  itself  in  thought  there  shone  into  the  room 
a  gleam  of  light>;  a  ray  of  sun.  It  was  quite  unmind- 
ful, and  sat  thinking.  Suddenly  it  rose,  with  a  terrible 
face,  and  that  guilty  hand  grasping  what  was  in  its 
breast.  Then  it  was  arrested  by  a  cry  —  a  wild,  loud, 
piercing,  loving,  rapturous  cry  —  and  he  only  saw  his 
own  reflection  in  the  glass,  and  at  his  knees,  his  daugh- 
ter! 

Yes.  His  daughter !  Look  at  her !  Look  here  '. 
Down  upon  the  ground,  clinging  to  him,  calling  to  him, 
folding  her  hands,  praying  to  him. 

"Papa!  Dearest  papa!  Pardon  me,  forgive  me! 
I  have  come  back  to  ask  forgiveness  on  my  knees.  I 
never  can  be  happy  more,  without  it ! " 

Unchanged  still.  Of  all  the  world,  unchanged.  Rais- 
mg  the  same  face  to  his,  as  on  that  miserable  uighL 
Asking .  his  forgiveness ! 

^  Dear  papa,  oh  don't  look  strangely  on  me !  I  never 
meant  to  leave  you.  I  never  thought  of  it,  before  or 
afterwards.  I  was  frightened  when  I  went  away,  and 
could  not  think.  Papa,  deal',  I  am  changed.  I  am 
penitent.  I  know  my  fault.  I  know  my  duty  bettei 
aow.     Papa,  don't  cast  me  off,  or  I  shall  die  I " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  287 

He  tottered  to  his  chair.  He  felt  her  draw  his  arras 
about  her  neck  :  he  felt  her  put  her  own  round  his; 
he  felt  her  kisses  on  his  face ;  he  felt  her  wet  cheek 
laid  against  his  own;  he  felt — oh,  how  deeply! — all 
that  he  had  done. 

Upon  the  breast  that  he  had  bruised,  against  the  heait 
that  he  had  almost  broken,  she  laid  his  face,  now  cov- 
(U-ed  with  his  hands,  and  said,  sobbing : 

"  Papa,  love,  I  am  a  mother.  I  have  a  child  who 
will  soon  call  Walter  by  the  name  by  which  I  call  yoa. 
When  it  was  born,  and  when  I  knew  how  much  1 
loved  it,  I  knew  what  I  had  done  in  leaving  you.  For- 
give me,  dear  papa !  oh  say  God  bless  me,  and  my 
little  child  !  " 

He  would  have  said  it,  if  he  could.  He  would  have 
raised  his  hands  and  besought  her  for  pardon,  but  she 
caught  them  in  her  own,  and  put  them  down,  hur- 
riedly. 

"  My  little  child  was  born  at  sea,  papa.  I  prayed  to 
God  (and  so  did  Walter  for  me)  to  spare  me,  that  I 
might  come  home.  The  moment  I  could  land,  I  came 
back  to  you.  Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more,  papa. 
Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more ! " 

His  head,  now  gray,  was  encircled  by  her  arm  ;  and 
he  groaned  to  think  that  never,  never,  had  it  rested  so 
before. 

"  You  will  come  home  with  me,  papa,  and  see  my 
baby.  A  boy,  papa.  His  name  is  Paul.  I  think  —  I 
hope  —  he's  like  "  — 

Her  tears  stopped  her. 

"  Dear  papa,  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  for  the  sa'ke  of 
ihe  name  we  have  given  him,  for  my  sake,  pardon  Wal- 
vW.     He  is  so  kind  and  tender  to  me.     I  am  so  happj 


288  DOMBEY  AND  SOU. 

irith  bim.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  we  wore  marriedt 
It  was  mine.     I  loved  him  so  raach." 

She  clung  closer  to  him,  more  endearing  and  m<»« 
earnest. 

"  He  is  the  darli:ij  of  my  heart,  papa.  I  would  die 
tar  him.  He  will  love  and  honor  you  as  I  will.  We 
will  teach  our  little  child  to  love  and  honor  you  :  and  we 
will  tell  him,  when  he  can  understand,  that  you  had  a 
son  of  that  name  once,  and  that  he  died,  and  you  were 
very  sorry ;  but  that  he  is  gone  to  heaven,  where  we 
k11  hope  to  see  him  when  our  time  for  resting  comes. 
Kiss  me,  papa,  as  a  promise  that  you  will  be  reconciled 
to  Walter  —  to  my  dearest  husband  —  to  the  father  of 
the  little  child  who  taught  me  to  come  back,  papa.  Who 
taught  me  to  come  back  ! " 

As  she  clung  closer  to  him,  in  another  burst  of 
tears,  he  kissed  her  on  her  lips,  and,  lifting  up  his 
eyes,  said,  "  Oh  my  Grod,  forgive  me,  for  I  need  it  very 
much  1 " 

With  that  he  dropped  his  head  again,  lamenting  over 
and  caressing  her,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  all  tlK» 
house  for  a  long,  long  time ;  they  remaining  clasped  ip 
one  another's  arms,  in  the  glorious  sunshine  that  had 
crept  in  with  Florence. 

He  dressed  himself  for  going  out,  with  a  docile  sub- 
mission  to  her  entreaty ;  and  walking  with  a  feeble  gait, 
and  looking  back,  with  a  tremble,  at  the  room  in  which 
he  had  been  so  long  shut  up,  and  where  he  had  sesn  the 
pictuie  in  the  glass,  passed  out  with  her  into  the  hall. 
Florence,  hardly  glancing  round  her,  lest  she  should 
remind  him  freshly  of  their  last  parting  —  for  their  feet 
were  on  the  very  stones  where  he  had  struck  her  in  his 
Badness  —  and  keeping  close  to  him,  with  her  eyes  uptHi 


DOMBEY  AOT)  SON. 

his  face,  and  bis  arm  about  ber,  led  bim  out  to  a  coach 
ibat  was  waiting  at  tbe  door,  and  carried  bim  away. 

Then,  Miss  Tox  and  Polly  came  out  of  tbeir  conceal- 
ment, and  exulted  tearfully.  And  tben  tbey  packed  hit 
dotbes,  and  books,  and  so  forth,  with  great  care;  and 
consigned  them  in  due  course  to  certain  persons  sent  bj 
Florence  in  tbe  evening,  to  fetch  tbem.  And  tben  Uiey 
took  a  last  cup  of  tea  in  tbe  lonely  bouse. 

"  And  so  Dombey  and  Son,  as  I  observed  upon  a  cet>- 
lain  sad  occasion,''  said  Miss  Tox,  winding  up  a  host  at 
recollections,  "  is  indeed  a  daughter,  Polly,  after  all." 

"  And  a  good  one  !  "  exclaimed  Polly. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  "  and  it's  a  credit  to 
you,  Polly,  that  you  were  always  her  friend  when  she 
was  a  little  child.  You  were  her  friend  long  before  I 
was,  Polly."  said  Miss  Tox ;  "  and  you're  a  good  crea- 
ture.    Robin  ! " 

Miss  Tox  addressed  herself  to  a  bullet-beaded  young 
man,  wlio  appeared  to  be  in  but  indifferent  circumstances, 
and  in  deprervsed  spirits,  and  who  was  sitting  in  a  remote 
comer.  Rising,  be  disclosed  to  view  tbe  form  and  feat- 
ares  of  the  Grinder. 

"  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  I  have  just  observed  to 
your  mother,  as  you  may  have  beard,  that  she  is  a  good 
creature." 

"  And  so  she  is,  miss,"  quoth  the  Grinder,  with  soins 
feeling. 

"  Very  well,  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  I  am  glad  to 
Sear  you  say  so.  Now,  Robin,  as  I  am  going  to  give 
you  a  trial,  at  your  urgent  request,  as  my  domestic,  with 
a  view  to  your  restoration  to  respectability  I  will  take 
this  impressive  occasion  of  remarking  that  I  hope  you 
•ill  never  foi^et  tliat  you  have,  and  have  always  luul,  a 

▼OU    IT  li 


290  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

good  mother,  and  that  you  will  endeavor  so  to  condad 
yourself  as  to  be  a  comfort  to  her." 

"  Upon  ray  soul  I  will,  miss,"  returned  the  Grinder. 
**  I  have  come  through  a  good  deal,  and  my  intentions  is 
now  as  straight  for'ard,  miss,  as  a  cove's  "  — 

"I  must  get  you  to  break  yourself  of  that  word,  Robin 
If  you  please,"  interposed  Miss  Tox,  politely. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,  as  a  chap's  "  — 

"  Thankee,  Robin,  no,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "  I  ehoulil 
prefer  individual." 

"As  a  indiwiddle's,"  said  the  Grinder. 

"  Much  bettei',"  remarked  Miss  Tox,  complacently ; 
"  infinitely  moi*e  expressive  !  " 

—  "can  be,"  pursued  Rob.  "  If  I  hadn't  been  and  got 
made  a  Grinder  on,  miss  and  mother,  which  was  a  most 
unfortunate  circumstance  for  a  young  co  —  indiwiddle." 

"  Very  good  indeed,"  observed  Miss  Tox,  approvingly. 

—  "  and  if  I  hadn't  been  led  away  by  birds,  and  then 
fallen  into  a  bad  service,"  said  the  Grinder,  "  I  hope  I 
might  have  done  better.    But  it's  never  too  kte  for  a  "  — 

"Indi — "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  widdle,"  said  the  Grinder,  "  to  mend  ;  and  I  hope  tc 
mend,  miss,  with  your  kind  trial ;  and  wishing,  mother, 
my  love  to  father,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  and  saying 
of  it." 

"I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  observed  Misa 
Tox.  "  Will  you  take  a  little  bread  and  butter,  and  a 
cop  of  tea,  before  we  go,  Robin  ? " 

"  Thankee,  miss,"  returned  the  Grinder ;  who  imme- 
diately began  to  use  his  own  personal  grinders  in  a  most 
remarkable  manner,  as  if  he  had  been  on  very  short  al- 
lowance for  a  considerable  period. 

Miss  Tox  being,  in  good  time,  bonneted  and  shawled, 


POMBEY  AND  SON.  291 

i;nd  Polly  too,  Rob  hugged  his  mother,  and  followed  his 
new  mistress  away ;  so  much  to  the  hopeful  admiration 
of  Polly,  that  something  in  her  eyes  made  luminous  rings 
round  the  gas-lamps  as  she  looked  after  him.  Polly  then 
put  out  her  light,  locked  the  house-door,  delivered  the 
key  at  an  agent's  hard  by,  and  went  home  as  fast  as  she 
could  go ;  rejoicing  in  the  shrill  delight  that  her  unex- 
pected arrival  would  occasion  there.  The  great  house, 
dumb  as  to  all  that  had  been  suffered  in  it,  and  the 
changes  it  had  witnessed  stood  frowning  like  a  dark  mate 
on  the  street ;  balking  any  nearer  inquiries  with  the 
staring  announcement  that  the  lease  of  this  desirdbte 
Family  Mansion  was  to  be  disposed  o£ 


292  POMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER   LX. 


CHIEFLY  MATRIMONIAL. 


The  grand  half-yearly  festival  holden  by  Doctor  aud 
Mrs.  Blimber,  on  which  occasion  they  requested  the 
pleasure  of  the  company  of  every  young  gentleman  pur- 
suing his  studies  in  that  genteel  establishment,  at  an 
early  party,  when  the  hour  was  half-past  seven  o'clock, 
and  when  the  object  was  quadrilles,  had  duly  taken  place, 
about  this  time ;  and  the  young  gentlemen,  with  no  un- 
becoming demonstrations  of  levity,  had  betaken  them- 
selves, in  a  state  of  scholastic  repletion,  to  their  own 
homes.  Mr.  Skettles  had  repaired  abroad,  permanently 
to  grace  the  establishment  of  his  father  Sir  Barnet  Sket- 
tles, whose  popular  manners  had  obtained  him  a  diplo- 
matic appointment,  the  honors  of  which  were  discharged 
by  himself  and  Lady  Skettles,  to  the  satisfaction  even  of 
their  own  countrymen  and  countrywomen  :  which  was 
considered  almost  miraculous.  Mr.  Tozer,  now  a  young 
man  of  lofty  stature,  in  Wellington  boots,  was  so  ex- 
tremsly  full  of  antiquity  as  to  be  nearly  on  a  par  with  a 
genuine  ancient  Roman  in  his  knowledge  of  English  :  a 
triumph  that  affected  his  good  parents  with  the  tenderest 
emotions,  and  caused  the  father  and  mother  of  Mr. 
Briggs  (whose  learning,  like  ill-arranged  luggage,  was 
•o  tightly  packed  that  he  couldn't  get  at  anything  he 
van  ted)  to  hide  their  diminished  heads.     The  fruit  la- 


DOMBET   AND  SON.  298 

boriously  gathered  from  the  tree  of  knowledge  by  thii 
latter  young  gentleman,  in  fact,  had  been  subjected  to  so 
much  pressure,  that  it  had  become  a  kind  of  intellectual 
Norfolk  Biffin,  and  had  nothing  of  its  original  form  or 
flavor  remaining.  Master  Bitherstone  now,  on  whom 
the  forcing  system  had  the  happier  and  not  uncommon 
effect  of  leaving  no  impression  whatever,  when  the  for. 
cing  apparatus  ceased  to  work,  was  in  a  much  more  com- 
fortable plight ;  and  being  then  on  shipboard,  bound  for 
Bengal,  found  himself  forgetting,  with  such  admirable 
rapidity,  that  it  was  doubtful  whether  his  declensions  of 
noun-substantives  would  hold  out  to  the  end  of  the  voy- 
age. 

When  Doctor  Blimber,  in  pursuance  of  the  usual 
course,  would  have  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  on  the 
morning  of  the  party,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our 
studies  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month,"  he  departed 
from  the  usual  course,  and  said,  "  Gentlemen,  when  our 
friend  Cincinnatus  retired  to  his  farm,  he  did  not  present 
to  tlK*  senate  any  Roman  whom  he  sought  to  nominate 
as  his  successor.  But  there  is  a  Roman  here,"  said  Doc- 
tor Blimber,  laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr. 
Feeder,  B.  A.,  "  adolescens  imprimis  grams  et  docttu^ 
gentlemen,  whom  I,  a  retiring  Cincinnatus,  wish  to  pre- 
sent to  my  little  senate,  as  their  future  Dictator.'  Gen- 
tlemen, we  will  resume  our  studies  on  the  twenty-fifth 
vf  next  month,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B. 
A."  At  this  (which  Doctor  Blimber  bad  previously 
called  upon  all  the  parents,  and  urbanely  explained), 
the  young  gentlemen  cheered;  and  Mr.  Tozer,  on  be 
half  of  the  rest,  instantly  presented  the  doctor  with  a 
silver  inkstand,  in  a  speech  containing  very  little  of  the 
toother-tongue,   but  fifteen    quotations   from   the   Latini 


294  DOaroEY  AND  SON. 

and  seven  from  the  Greek,  which  moved  the  yoiingei 
of  the  young  gentlemen  to  discontent  and  envy  ;  they 
remarking,  "  Oh,  ah !  It  was  all  very  well  for  old 
Tozer,  but  they  didn't  subscribe  money  for  old  Tozer 
to  show  off  with,  they  supposed  ;  did  they  ?  What  busi- 
ness was  it  of  old  Tozer's  more  than  anybody  else's? 
It  wasn't  his  inkstand,  Why  couldn't  he  leave  the  boys' 
property  alone  ?  "  and  murmuring  other  expressions  of 
their  dissatisfaction,  which  seemed  to  find  a  greater  re- 
lief in  calling  him  old  Tozer,  than  in 'any  other  avail- 
able vent.  '■'' 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  to  the  young  gentlemen, 
nor  a  hint  dropped,  of  anything  like  a  contemplated 
marriage  between  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  and  the  fair 
Cornelia  Blimber.  Doctor  Blimber,  especially,  seemed 
to  take  pains  to  look  as  if  nothing  would  surprise  him 
more  ;  but  it  was  perfectly  well  known  to  all  the  young 
gentlemen  nevertheless,  and  when  they  departed  for  the 
society  of  their  relations  and  friends,  they  took  leave 
of  Mr.  Feeder  with  awe. 

Mr.  Feeder's  most  romantic  visions  were  fulfilled. 
The  doctor  had  determined  to  paint  the  house  outside, 
and  put  it  in  thorough  repair;  and  to  give  up  the 
business,  and  to  give  up  Cornelia.  The  painting  and 
repairing  began  upon  the  very  day  of  the  young  gen- 
tlemen's departure,  and  now  behold  !  the  wedding  morn- 
ing was  come,  and  Cornelia,  in  a  new  pair  of  spectacles, 
was  waiting  to  be  led  to  the  hymeneal  altar. 

Tlie  doctor  with  his  learned  legs,  and  Mrs.  Blimber 
in  a  lilac  bonnet,  and  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  with  his  long 
knuckles  and  his  bristly  head  of  hair,  and  Mr.  Feeder's 
brother,  the  Reverend  Alfred  Feeder,  M.  A.,  who  was 
•>o  perform   the  ceremony,  were    all    assembled   in   ths 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  295 

drRwing-ioom,  and  Cornelia  with  her  orange-flow'eiv!  and 
bride>maids  had  just  come  down,  and  looked,  as  of  old^ 
a  little  squeezed  in  ap|)earance,  but  very  charming,  wher 
the  door  opened,  and  the  weak-eyed  young  man,  La  a 
loud  voice,  made  the  following  proclamation  : 

"Mk.  and  Mks.  Toots  !" 

Upon  which  there  entered  Mr.  Toots,  grown  eKtreraelj 
Btoui,  and  on  his  arm  a  lady  very  handsomely  and  be- 
comingly di-essed,  with  very  bright  black  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Blimber,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  allow  me  to  present 
my  wife." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  delighted  to  receive  her.  Mrs 
Blimber  was  a  little  condescending,  but  extremely  kind. 

"  And  as  you've  known  me  for  a  long  time,  yoa 
know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  let  me  assure  you  that  she  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  women  that  ever  lived.'' 

"  My  dear  !  "  remonstrated  Mrs.  Toots. 

"  Upon  rfiy  word  and  honor  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
"I  —  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Blimber,  she's  a  most  extraor- 
dinary woman." 

Mrs.  Toots  laughed  merrily,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  led  her 
to  Cornelia.  Mr.  Toots  having  paid  his  respects  in  that 
direction,  and  having  saluted  his  old  preceptor,  who  said, 
in  allusion  to  his  conjugal  state,  "  Well  Toots,  well 
Toots  !  So  you  are  one  of  us,  are  you  Toots  ?  "  —  re- 
tired with  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  into  a  window. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  being  in  great  spirits,  made  a  spar 
It  Mr.  Toots,  and  tapped  him  skilfully  with  the  back 
of  his  hand  on  the  breast-bone. 

"  Well,  old  Buck  !  "  said  Mr.  Feeder  with  a  laugh, 
"Well !     Here  we  are  !     Taken  in  and  done  for.    Eh?* 

"  Feeder,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  give  you  joy.  If 
you're  as  —  as  —  as  perfectly  blissful  in  a  matrimonial 
life,  as  I  am  myself,  you'll  have  nothing  to  desire." 


296  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  I  don't  forget  my  old  friends,  you  see,''  said  Mr, 
Feeder.     "  I  ask  'em  to  my  wedding.  Toots." 

"  Feeder,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  gravely,  '*  the  fact  is, 
that  there  were  several  circumstances  which  prevented 
me  from  communicating  with  you  until  after  my  mar- 
riage had  been  solemnized.  In  the  first  place,  I  had 
made  a  perfect  brute  of  myself  to  you  on  the  subject  of 
Mise  Dombey ;  and  I  felt  that  if  you  were  asked  to  any 
wedding  of  mine,  you  would  naturally  expect  that  it  was 
*oith  Miss  Dombey,  which  involved  explanations,  that 
ipon  my  word  and  honor,  at  that  crisis,  would  have 
Knocked  me  completely  over.  In  the  second  place,  our 
wedding  was  strictly  private ;  there  being  nobody  pres- 
ent but  one  friend  of  myself  and  Mrs.  Toots's,  who  is  a 
captain  in  —  I  don't  exactly  know  in  what,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  "  but  it's  of  no  consequence.  I  hope,  Feeder,  that 
in  writing  a  statement  of  what  had  occurred  before  Mrs. 
Toots  and  myself  went  abroad  upon  our  foreign  tour,  I 
fully  discharged  the  offices  of  friendship." 

"  Toots,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  hands,  "  I 
was  joking." 

"  And  now  Feeder,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  what  you  think  of  my  union." 

"Capital!"  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  You  think  it's  capital,  do  you.  Feeder  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Toots  solemnly.  "  Then  how  capital  must  it  be  to  Me. 
For  you  can  never  know  what  an  extraordinary  woman 
that  is." 

Mr.  Feeder  was  willing  to  take  it  for  granted.  But 
Mr.  Toots  shook  his  head,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  that 
Deing  possible. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  what  /  wanted  in  a  wife, 
was  —  in  short,  was  sense.  Money,  Feeder,  I  had 
Sense  I  —  I  had  not,  particularly." 


DOMLEY  AND  SON.  297 

Mr.  Feeder  murmured,  "  Oh  yes,  you  had.  Toots ! " 
3ut  Mr.  Toots  said  : 

"  No,  Feeder,  1  had  not.  Why  should  I  disguise  it  ? 
I  had  not.  I  knew  that  sense  wjis  There,'.'  said  Mr. 
loots,  stretching  out  his  hand  towards  his  wife,  "lu* 
jicrfect  heaps.  I  had  no  relation  to  object  or  be  <rf 
fen  Jed,  on  the  score  of  station  ;  for  I  had  no  relation.  I 
tave  never  had  anybody  belonging  to  me  but  my  guar- 
dian, and  him,  Feeder,  I  have  always  considered  as  a 
Pirate  and  a  Corsair.  Therefore,  you  know  it  was  not 
likely,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  should  take  his  opinion." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  Accordingly,"  resumed  Mr.  Toots,  "  1  acted  on  my 
own.  Bright  was  the  day  on  which  I  did  so  !  Feeder  1 
Nobody  but  myself  can  tell  what  the  capacity  of  that 
woman's  mind  is.  If  ever  the  Riglits  of  Woman,  and  all 
that  kind  of  thing,  are  properly  attended  to,  it  will  be 
.  through  her  powerful  intellect.  —  Susan,  my  dear !  " 
said  Mr,  Toots,  looking  abruptly  out  of  the  window- 
curtains,  "pray  do  not  exert  yourself!" 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Toots,  "  I  was  only  talking." 

"  But  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  pray  do  not  exert 
yourself.  You  really  must  be  careful.  Do  not,  my 
dear  Susan,  exert  yourself.  She's  so  easily  excited," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  apart  to  Mrs.  Blimber,  '*  and  then  sh« 
forgets  the  medical  man  altogether." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  impressing  on  Mrs.  Toota  the  ne- 
cessity of  caution,  when  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  offered  hcf 
his  arm,  and  led  her  down  to  the  cai-riages  that  were  in 
waiting  to  go  to  church.  Doctor  Blimber  escorted  'Slis. 
Toots.  Mr  Toots  escorted  the  fair  bride,  around  whose 
kmbent  spectacles  two  gauzy  little  bridesmaids  fluttered 
like  moths.     JVlr.  Feeder's  brother,  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder 


298  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

M.  A.,  had  already  gone  on,  in  advance,  to  assume  hia 
official  functions. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  in  an  admirable  man* 
ner.  Cornelia  with  her  crisp  little  curls,  "  went  in,"  as  • 
^  the  Chicken  might  have  said,  with  great  composure ;  and 
Doctor  Blimber  gave  her  away,  like  a  man  who  had 
quite  made  up  his  mirrd  to  it.  The  gauzy  little  brides- 
maids appeared  to  suffer  most  Mrs.  Blimber  was  af- 
fected, but  gently  so  ;  and  told  the  Reverend  Mr.  Alfred 
Feeder,  M.  A.,  on  the  way  home,  that  if  she  could  only 
have  seen  Cicero  in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum,  she 
would  not  have  had  a  wish,  now,  ungratified. 

Tliere  was  a  breakfast  afterwards,  limited  to  the  same 
Braall  party  ;  at  which  the  spirits  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A., 
were  tremendous,  and  so  communicated  themselves  to 
Mrs.  Toots,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  several  times  heard  to 
observe,  across  the  table,  "  My  dear  Susan,  dorHi  exert 
yourself!"  The  best  of  it  was,  that  Mr.  Toots  felt  it 
incumbent  on  him  to  make  a  speech  ;  and  in  spite  of  a 
wliole  code  of  telegraphic  dissuasions  from  Mrs.  Toots, 
appeared  on  his  legs  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"  I  really,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  in  this  house,  where 
(vhatever  was  done  to  me  in  the  way  of —  of  any  mental 
sonfusion  sometimes  —  which  is  of  no  consequence  and  I 
impute  to  nobody  —  I  was  always  treated  like  one  of 
Doctor  Blimber's  family,  and  had  a  desk  to  myself  for  a 
t5onsiderable  period  —  can  —  not  —  allow  —  my  friend 
Feeder  to  be  "  — 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  "  married." 

"  It  may  not  be  inappropriate  to  the  occasion,  oi  alto- 
gether uninteresting,"  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a  delighted 
face,  "  to  observe  that  my  wife  is  a  most  extraordinary 
woman,  and  would  do  this  much  better  than  myself— 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  299 

fcllow  my  friend  Feeder  to  be  manied  —  especiall? 
to"  — 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  "Miss  Blimber." 
"  Tc  Mrs.  Feeder,  my  love  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a 
subdued  tone  of  private  discussion :  " '  whom  God  hath 
joined,'  you  know,  '  let  no  man  '  —  don't  you  know  ?  I 
cannot  allow  my  friend,  Feeder,  to  be  married  —  espe- 
cially to  Mrs.  Feeder  —  without  proposing  their  —  their 

—  Toasts  ;  and  may,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
his  wife,  as  if  for  inspiration  in  a  high  flight,  "  may  the 
torch  of  Hymen  be  the  beacon  of  joy,  and  may  the 
flowers  we  have  this  day  strewed  ih  their  path,  be  the 

—  the  banishers  of —  of  gloom  ! " 

Doctor  Blimber,  who  had  a  tasle  for  raetapiior,  waa 
l>le:ised  with  this,  and  said,  "Very  good,  Toots!  Very 
well  said,  indeed.  Toots ! "  and  nodded  his  head  and 
patted  his  hands.  Mr.  Feeder  made  in  reply,  a  comic 
speech  checkered  with  sentiment.  Mr.  Alfred  Feedt-r, 
M.  A.,  was  afterwards  very  happy  on  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Blimber;  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  scarcely  less  so,  on  the 
gauzy  little  bridesmaids.  Doctor  Blimber  then  in  a 
sonorous  voice,  delivered  a  few  thoughts  in  the  pastoi-aJ 
style,  relative  to  the  rushes  among  which  it  was  the  in- 
tention of  himself  and  Mrs.  Blimber  to  dwell,  and  the 
bee  that  would  hum  around  their  cot.  Shortly  after 
which,  as  the  doctor's  eyes  were  twinkling  in  a  remark- 
able manner,  and  his  son-in-law  had  already  observed 
that  lime  was  made  for  slaves,  and  had  inqi  ired  whether 
Mrs,  Toots  sang,  the  discreet  Mrs.  Blimber  dissolved  the 
sitting,  and  sent  Cornelia  away,  very  cool  and  comfort- 
ftble,  in  a  post-chaise,  wivh  the  man  of  her  heart. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  withdrew  to  the  Bedford  (Mrs. 
Toots  had  been  there  before  in  old   times,   under  her 


800  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

niaiden  name  of  Nipper),  and  there  found  a  It^tler,  which 
it  took  Mr.  Toots  such  an  enormous  time  to  read,  that 
Mrs.  Toots  was  frightened. 

"  My  dear  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  fright  is  worse 
than  exertion.     Pi-ay  he  calm  !  " ' 

"Who  is  it  from?"  asked  Mrs.  Toots. 

"  Why,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  from  Captain 
Gills.  Do  not  excite  yourself.  Walters  and  Miss  Dom- 
bey  are  expected  home  1 '' 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Toots,  raising  herself  quickly 
from  the  sofa,  very  pale,  "  don't  try  to  deceive  me,  for 
it's  no  use,  they're  come  home  —  I  see  it  plainly  in  your 
face ! " 

"  She's  a  most  extraordinary  woman  ! "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Toots  in  rapturous  admiration.  "  You're  perfectly  right, 
my  love,  they  have  come  home.  Miss  Dombey  has  seen 
her  father,  and  they  are  reconciled  ! " 

"  Reconciled  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Toots,  clapping  nei  hands. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Toots ;  '*  pray  do  not  exert  your- 
self. Do  remember  the  medical  man  !  Captain  Gills 
says  —  at  least  he  don't  say,  but  I  imagine,  from  what 
I  can  make  out,  he  means,  —  that  Miss  Dombey  has 
brought  her  unfortunate  father  away  from  his  old  house, 
to  one  where  she  and  Walters  are  living ;  that  he  ia 
lying  very  ill  there  —  supposed  to  be  dying ;  and  that 
she  attends  upon  him  night  and  day." 

Mrs.  Toots  began  to  cry  quite  bitterly. 

"  My  dearest  Susan,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  do,  do,  if 
you  possibly  can,  remember  the  medical  man !  If  you 
ean't,  it's  of  no  consequence  —  but  do  endeavor  to  ! " 

His  wife,  with  her  old  manner  suddenly  re^iored,  so 
pathetically  entreated  him  to  take  her  to  her  precious 
pet,  her  little  mistress,  her  own  darling,  Ana  tne  like,  thstf 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  801 

Mr.  Toots,  wliose  sympathy  and  admiration  were  of  the 
Btrongcst  kind,  consented  from  his  very  heart  of  hearts  * 
und  they  agreed  to  depart  immediately,  and  present 
themselves  in  answer  to  the  captain's  letter. 

Now  some  hidden  sympathies  of  things,  or  some  coin 
cidences,  had  that  day  brought  the  captain  himself  (tow- 
ard whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  were  soon  journeying), 
into  the  flowery  train  of  wedlock  ;  not  as  a  principal,  but 
as  an  accessory.     It  happened  accidentally,  and  thus: 

The  captain,  having  seen  Florence  and  her  baby  for  a 
moment,  to  his  unbounded  content,  and  having  had  a  long 
talk  with  Walter,  turned  out  for  a  walk  ;  feeling  it  neces- 
sary to  have  some  solitary  meditation  on  the  changes  of 
human  affairs,  and  to  shake  his  glazed  hat  profoundly 
over  the  fall  of  Mr.  Dombey,  for  whom  the  generosity 
and  simplicity  of  his  nature  were  awakened  in  a  lively 
manner.  Tlie  captain  would  have  been  very  low,  in- 
deed, on  the  unhappy  gentleman's  account,  but  for  the 
recollection  of  the  baby  ;  which  afforded  him  such  intent 
satisfaction  whenever  it  arose,  that  he  laughed  aloud  as 
he  went  alorig  the  street,  and,  indeed,  more  than  once,  in 
a  sudden  impulse  of  joy,  threw  up  his  ghkzed  hat  and 
caught  it  again  ;  much  to  the  amazement  of  the  specta- 
tors. The  rapid  alternations  of  light  and  shade  to  which 
these  two  conflicting  subjects  of  reflection  exposed  the 
captain,  vvere  so  very  trying  to  his  spirits,  tliat  he  felt  8 
long  walk  necessary  to  his  composure  ;  and  as  there  is  a 
great  deal  in  the  influence  of  harmonious  associations,  he 
chose,  for  the  scene  of  this  walk,  his  old  neighborhood, 
down  among  the  mast,  oar,  and  block-makers,  ship-biscuit 
bakers,  coal-whippers,  pitch-kettles,  sailors,  canals,  docks, 
»wing-bridges,  and  other  soothing  objects. 

These  peaceful  scenes,  and  particularly  the  region  o/ 


B02  DOMBEY  AND  SON 

Liinehoiise-Hole  and  thereabouts,  were  so  influential  in 
calming  the  captain,  that  he  walked  on  with  restored 
tranquillity,  and  was,  in  fact,  regaling  himself,  under  his 
breath,  with  the  ballad  of  Lovely  Peg,  when,  on  turning 
a  corner,  he  was  suddenly  ti-anslixed  and  rendered  speech- 
less by  a  triumphant  procession  that  he  beheld  advancing 
towards  him.  ^ 

This  awful  demonstration  vvas  headed  by  that  deter- 
mined woman  Mrs.  MacStin;;er,  who,  preserving  a  coun- 
tenance of  inexorable  resolution,  and  wearing  conspicu- 
ously attached  to  her  obdun.te  bosom  a  stupendous  watch 
and  ai)[M.'ndages,  which  the  captain  recognized  at  a  glance 
as  the  property  of  Bunsby,  conducted  under  her  arm  no 
other  than  that  sagacious  mariner  ;  he,  with  the  dis- 
traught and  melancholy  visage  of  a  captive  borne  into 
a  foreign  land,  meekly  resigning  himself  to  her  wilL 
Behind  them  appeared  the  young  MacStingers,  in  a 
•body,  exulting.  Behind  them,  two  ladies  of  a  terrible 
and  st<'adfast  aspect,  leading  between  them  a  short  gentle- 
man in  a  tall  hat,  who  likewise,  exulted.  In  the  wake, 
appeared  liunsby's  boy,  bearing  umbrellas.  The  whole 
were  in  good  marching  order;  and  a  dreadful  smartness 
that  pervaded  the  party  would  have  sutficiently  an- 
nounced, if  the  intrepid  countenances  of  the  ladies  had 
been  wanting,  that  it  was  a  procession  of  sacrifice,  and 
liiat  the  victim  was  Bunsby. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  captain  was  to  run  away 
I'his  also  appeared  to  be  the  first  impulse  of  Bunsby. 
hopeless  as  its  execution  must  have  proved.  But  a  cry 
of  recognition  proceeding  from  the  party,  and  Alexander 
MacStinger  running  up  to  the  captain  with  open  arms, 
ih3  captain  struck. 

*'  Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle ! "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger    ''  Thii 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  308 

W  indeed  a  meeting  !  I  bear  no  malice  now  Cap'en 
Outtle  —  you  needn't  fear  that  I'm  a-going  to  cast  any 
reflections.  I  hope  to  go  to  the  altar  in  another  spirit." 
Heie  Mrs.  MacStinger  paused,  and  drawing  her  lelf  up, 
and  inflating  her  bosom  with  a  long  breath,  said,  in  allu- 
sion to  tlie  victim,  "  My  usband,  Cap'en  Cuttle  ! " 

The  abject  Bunsby  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  lo 
the  left,  nor  at  his  bride,  nor  at  his  friend,  but  straight 
before  him  at  nothing.  The  captain  putting  out  his 
hand,  Bunsby  put  out  his ;  but,  in  answer  to  the  cap- 
tain's greeting,  spake  no  word. 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  if  you 
would  wish  to  heal  up  past  animosities,  and  to  see 
the  last  of  your  friend,  my  usband,  as  a  single  pei*soo, 
we  should  be  appy  of  your  company  to  chapel.  Here  is 
a  lady  here,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  turning  round  to 
the  more  intrepid  of  the  two,  "  my  bridesmaid,  that  will 
be  glad  of  your  protection,  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  short  gentleman  in  the  tall  hat,  who  it  appeared 
was  the  husband  of  the  other  lady,  and  who  evidently 
exulted  at  the  reduction  of  a  fellow-creature  to  his  own 
condition,  gave  place  at  this,  and  resigned  the  lady  to 
Captain  Cuttle.  The  lady  immediately  seized  him,  and, 
observing  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  gave  the  word, 
In  a  strong  voice,  to  advance. 

The  aiptain's  concern  for  his  friend,  not  unmingled,  at 
first,  with  some  concern  for  himself  —  for  a  shadowy 
terror  that  he  raiglit  be  married  by  violence,  possessed 
him,  until  his  knowledge  of  the  service  came  to  his  relief, 
and  remembering  the  legal  obligation  of  saying,  "1  will," 
he  felt  iiimself  personally  safe  so  long  as  he  resolved,  if 
Asked  any  question,  distinctly  to  reply  "  I  won't  "  — 
»hrcw   Uim   into  a  profuse   perspiration  ;   and  rendered 


304  DOMBET  AND  SOlf 

him,  for  a  time,  insensible  to  the  movements  of  the  pro- 
cession, of  which  he  now  formed  a  feature,  and  to  the 
3onversation  of  his  fair  companion.  But  as  h(j  became 
less  agitated,  he  learnt  from  this  lady  that  she  was  the 
widow  of  a  Mr.  Bokum,  who  had  held  an  emplojment 
in  the  Custom  House  ;  that  she  was  the  dearest  friend 
of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  whom  she  considered  a  pattern  for 
her  sex ;  that  she  had  often  heard  of  the  captain,  and 
now  hoped  he  had  repented  of  his  past  life  ;  that  she 
trusted  Mr.  Bunsby  knew  what  a  blessing  he  had  gained, 
but  that  she  feared  men  seldom  did  know  what  such 
blessings  were,  until  they  had  lost  them  ;  with  more  to 
the  same  purpose. 

All  this  time,  the  captain  could  not  but  observe  that 
Mrs.  Bokum  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  the  bridegroom, 
and  that  whenever  they  came  near  a  court  or  other  nar- 
row turning  which  appeared  favorable  for  fliglit,  she  was 
on  the  alert  to  cut  him  off  if  he  attempted  escape.  The 
other  lady,  too,  as  well  as  her  husband,  the  short  gentle- 
man with  the  tall  hat,  were  plainly  on  guard,  according 
to  a  preconcerted  plan  ;  and  the  wretclied  man  was  so 
secured  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  that  any  effort  at  self-pres- 
ervation by  flight  was  rendered  futile.  This,  indeed, 
was  apparent  to  the  mere  populace,  who  expressed  their 
perception  of  the  fact  by  jeers  and  cries  ;  to  all  of  which, 
the  dread  MacStinger  was  inflexibly  indifferent,  while 
Bunsby  himself  appeared  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness. 

The  captain  made  many  attempts  to  accost  the  philos- 
opher, if  only  in  a  monosyllable  or  a  signal :  but  always 
Eiiled,  in  consequence  of  the  vigilance  of  the  guard,  and 
the  difficulty,  at  all  times  peculiar  to  Bunsby's  constitu- 
tion, of  having  his  attention  aroused  by  any  outward  and 
risible  sign  whatever.    Thus  thej  approached  the  chapel 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  ?05 

a  neat  whitewashed  edifice,  recently  engaged  by  the  Rev- 
erend Mclchisedech  Howler,  who  had  consented,  on  very 
urgent  solicitation,  to  give  the  world  another  two  yearn 
of  existence,  but  had  informed  his  followers  that,  then,  ii 
must  positively  go. 

While  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  was  offering  up 
some  extemporary  orisons,  the  captain  found  an  ojn^r- 
tunity  of  growling  in  the  bridegroom's  ear : 

"What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer?" 

To  which  Bunsby  replied,  with  a  forgetful ness  of  the 
Reverend  Melchisedech,  which  nothing  but  his  desperate 
circumstances  could  have  excused  : 

"  D— d  bad." 

"  Jack  Bunsby,"  whispered  the  captain,  "  do  you  do 
this  here,  o'  your  own  free  will  ? " 

Mr.  Bunsby  answered  "  No." 

"  Why  do  you  do  it,  then,  my  lad  ?  "  inquired  the  cap- 
tain, not  unnaturally. 

Bunsby,  still  looking,  and  always. looking  with  an  im- 
movable countenance,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  world, 
made  no  reply. 

"  Why  not  sheer  off?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Eh  ?  "  whispered  Bunsby,  with  a  momentary  gleam 
ot  hope. 

"  Sheer  off,"  said  the  captain. 

"Where's  the  good?"  retorted  the  forlorn  sage.  "She'd 
capter  me  agen." 

"  Try  !  "  replied  the  captain.  "  Cheer  up  !  Come  I 
Now's  your  time.     Sheer  off,  Jack  Bunsby  !  " 

Jack  Bunsby,  however,  instead  of  profiting  by  the  ad- 
vice, said  in  a  doleful  whisper : 

*'It  all  began  in  that  there  chest  o'  your'c  Why  did 
I  ever  conwoy  her  into  port  that  night/"' 

vc>L.   IV.  20 


806  DOMBEY  AND  SOW. 

"  My  lad,"  faltered  the  captain,  "  I  thought  as  you  had 
rorae  over  her  ;  not  as  she  had  come  over  you  A  man 
as  has  got  such  opinions  as  you  have  ! " 

Mr.  Bunsby  merely  uttered  a  suppressed  groan. 

"  Come  ! "  said  the  captain,  nudging  him  with  his  el- 
bow, "now's  your  time!  Sheer  off!  I'll  covtr  yout 
retreat.  The  time's  a-flying.  Bunsby !  It's  for  liberty. 
Will  you  once  ?  " 

Bunsby  was  immovable. 

**  Bunsby  !  "  whispered  the  captain,  "  will  you  twice?" 

Bunsby  wouldn't  twice. 

"  Bunsby  !  "  urged  the  captain,  "  it's  for  liberty  ;  will 
you  three  times  ?     Now  or  never  !  " 

Bunsby  didn't  then,  and  didn't  ever ;  for  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  immediately  afterwards  married  him. 

One  of  the  most  frightful  circumstances  of  the  cere- 
mony to  the  captain,  was  the  deadly  interest  exhibited 
therein  by  Juliana  MacStinger ;  and  the  fatal  concentra- 
tion of  her  faculties,  with  which  that  promising  child 
already  the  image  of  her  parent,  observed  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings. The  captain  saw  in  this  a  succession  of  man- 
traps stretching  out  infinitely  ;  a  series  of  ages  of  op- 
pression and  -coercion,  through  which  the  seafaring  line 
was  doomed.  It  was  a  more  memorable  sight  than  the 
unflinching  steadiness  of  Mrs.  Bokum  and  the  other  lady^ 
the  exultation  of  the  short  gentleman  in  the  tall  hat,  or 
even  the  fell  inflexibility  of  INIrs.  MacStinger.  The 
blaster  MacStingers  understood  little  of  what  was  going 
on,  and  cared  less  ;  being  chiefly  engaged,  during  the 
ceremony,  in  treading  on  one  another's  half  boots  ;  but 
the  contrast  afforded  hy  those  wretched  infants  only  set 
)ff  and  adorned  the  precocious  woman  in  Juliana.  An- 
other year  or  two,  the  captain  thought,  and  to  lodge 
ivhere  that  child  was,  would  be  destruction. 


DO?»rRKY    AXD    SON". 

The  coromony  was  conclntled  by  a  general  spring  of 
>hci  yomig  family  on  ISIr.  Bunshy,  whom  they  hailed  by 
Ihe  endearing  name  of  father,  and  from  whom  they  solic- 
ted  half-pence.  These  gushes  of  affection  over,  the  pro- 
cession was  about  to  issue  forth  again,  when  it  was  de- 
layed for  some  little  time  by  an  unexpected  transport  on 
tlie  part  of  Alexander  MucStinger.  That  dear  child,  it 
seemed,  connecting  a  chapel  with  tombstones,  when  it 
was  entered  for  any  purpose  apart  from  the  ordinary 
religious  exercises,  could  not  be  persuaded  but  that  his 
mother  was  now  to  be  decently  interred,  and  lost  to 
tiim  forever.  In  the  anguish  of  this  conviction,  he 
screamed  with  astonishing  force,  and  turned  black  in  the 
face.  However  touching  these  marks  of  a  tender  dispo- 
sition were  to  his  mother,  it  was  not  in  the  character  of 
that  remarkable  woman  to  permit  her  recognition  of 
them  to  degenerate  into  weakness.  Therefore,  after 
vainly  endeavoring  to  convince  his  reason  by  shakes, 
pokes,  bawlings-out,  and  similar  applications  to  his  head, 
she  led  him  into  the  air,  and  tried  another  method ; 
which  was  manifested  to  the  marriage-party  by  a  quick 
succession  of  sharp  sounds,  resembling  applause,  and 
subsequently,  by  their  seeing  Alexander  in  contact  with 
the  coolest  paving-stone  in  the  court,  greatly  flushed,  and 
loudly  lamenting. 

The  procession  being  then  in  a  condition  to  form  it- 
self once  more,  and  repair  to  Brig  Place,  where  a  mar- 
riage feast  was  in  readiness,  returned  as  it  had  come, 
not  without  the  receipt,  by  Bunsby,  of  many  humorous 
■congratulations  from  the  populace  oji  his  recently-acquired 
bappiness.  The  captain  accompanied  it  as  flvr  as  the 
jouse-door,  but,  being  made  uneasy  by  the  gentler  mau- 
ler of  IVIrs.  Bokum,  who,  now  that  she  was  relieved  from 


808  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

her  engrossing  duty  —  for  the  watchfulness  and  a.acritj 
of  the  ladies  sensibly  diminished  when  the  bridegroom 
was  safely  married  —  had  greater  leisure  to  show  an  in- 
terest in  his  behalf,  there  left  it  and  the  captive  ;  faintly 
pleading  an  appointment,  and  promising  to  return  pres* 
ently.  The  captain  had  another  cause  for  uneasiness,  in 
remorsefully  reflecting  that  he  had  been  the  first  means 
of  Bunsby's  entrapment,  though  certainly  without  intend- 
ing it,  and  through  his  unbounded  faith  in  the  resources 
of  that  philosopher. 

To  go  back  to  old  Sol  Gills  at  the  "Wooden  Midship* 
man's,  and  not  first  go  round  to  ask  how  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  was  —  albeit  the  house  where  he  lay  w^as  out  of 
London,  and  away  on  the  borders  of  a  fresh  heath 
—  was  quite  out  of  the  captain's  course.  So  he  got 
a  lift  when  he  was  tired,  and  made  out  the  journey 
gayly. 

The  blinds  were  pulled  down,  and  the  house  so  quiet, 
that  the  captain  was  almost  afraid  to  knock  ;  but  listen- 
ing at  the  door,  he  heard  low  voices  within,  very  near  it, 
and,  knocking  softly,  was  admitted  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr. 
Toots  and  his  wife  had,  in  fact,  just  arrived  there ; 
having  been  at  the  Midshipman's  to  seek  him,  and  hav- 
ing there  obtained  the  address. 

They  were  not  so  recently  arrived,  but  that  Mrs. 
Toots  had  caught  the  baby  from  somebody,  taken  it  in 
her  arms,  and  sat  down  on  the  stairs,  hugging  and  fon- 
dling it.  Florence  was  stooping  down  beside  her ;  and 
no  one  could  have  said  which  Mrs.  Toots  was  hugging 
and  fondling  most,  the  mother  or  the  child,  or  whicii  w.xa 
the  tenderer,  Florence  of  Mrs.  Toots,  or  Mrs.  Toots  of 
her,  or  both  of  the  baby ;  it  was  such  a  little  group  0/ 
'ove  and  agitation. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  9Qi 

"And  is  your  Pa  very  ill,  my  darling  dear  Miss 
Floy?"  asked  Susan. 

"  He  is  very,  very  ill,"  said  Florence.  "  But  Susan 
dear,  you  must  not  speak  to  me  as  you  used  to  speak. 
And  what's  this  ? "  said  Florence,  touching  her  clothes 
in  amazement.  "  Your  old  dress,  dear  ?  Your  old  cap 
curls,  and  all  ?  " 

Susan  hurst  into  tears,  and  showered  kisses  on  tha 
little  hand  that  had  touched  her  so  wonder! ugly. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  stepping 
forward,  "  I'll  explain.  She's  the  most  extraordinary 
woman.  There  are  not  many  to  equal  her !  She  has 
always  said  —  she  said  before  we  were  married,  and  has 
said  to  this  day  —  that  whenever  you  came  home,  she'd 
come  to  you  in  no  dress  but  the  dress  she  used  to  serve 
you  in,  for  fear  she  might  seem  strange  to  you,  and  you 
might  like  her  less.  I  admire  the  dress  myself,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  "  of  all  things.  I  adore  her  in  it !  My  dear 
Miss  Dombey,  she'll  be  your  maid  again,  your  nurse,  all 
that  she  ever  was,  and  more.  There's  no  change  in  her. 
But  Susan,  my  dear,"  said  Mr,  Toots,  who  had  spoken 
with  great  feeling  and  high  admiration,  "all  I  ask  is, 
that  you'll  remember  the  medical  man,  and  not  exert 
yourself  too  much  1 " 


SIO  DOMBEY  AND  SON* 


CHAPTER  LXL 


RELENTING. 


Florence  had  need  of  help.  Her  father's  need  of 
it  was  sore,  and  made  the  aid  of  her  old  friend  invaln* 
able.  Death  stood  at  his  pillow.  A  shade,  already,  of 
what  he  had  been,  shattered  in  mind,  and  perilously  sick 
in  body,  he  laid  his  weary  head  down  on  the  bed  his 
daughter's  hands  prepared  for  him,  and  had  never  raised 
it  since. 

She  was  always  with  him.  He  knew  her,  generally  ; 
though,  in  the  wandering  of  his  brain,  he  otYen  confused 
the  circumstances  under  which  be  spoke  to  her.  Thus 
he  would  address  her,  sometimes,  as  if  his  boy  were 
newly  dead ;  and  would  tell  her,  that  although  he  had 
said  nothing  of  her  ministering  at  the  little  bedside,  yet 
he  had  seen  it  —  he  had  seen  it;  and  then  would  hide 
his  face  and  sob,  and  put  out  his  worn  hand.  Sometimes 
he  would  ask  her  for  herself.  "  Where  is  Florence  ? '' 
"I  am  here,  papa,  I  am  here."  "I  don't  know  her!" 
he  would  cry.  "  We  have  been  parted  so  long,  that  1 
don't  know  her ! "  and  then  a  staring  dread  would  be 
upon  him,  until  she  could  soothe  his  perturbation  ;  and 
recall  the  tears  she  tried  so  hard,  at  other  times,  to  dry. 

He  rambled  through  the  scenes  of  his  old  pursuits  — 
through  many  where  Florence  lost  him  as  she  listened  — 
sometimes  for  hours.  He  would  repeat  that  childish 
kjuesticn,  "  What  is  money  ?  ".  and  ponder  on  it,  and  think 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  811 

ahout  it,  and  reason  with  himself,  more  or  less  connect- 
edly, for  a  good  answer ;  as  if  it  had  never  been  pro- 
posed to  him  until  that  moment.  He  would  go  on  with 
a  musing  repetition  of  the  title  of  his  old  firm  twenty 
thousand  times,  and,  at  every  one  of  them,  would  turn 
his  head  upon  his  pillow.  He  would  count  his  children 
—  one  —  two  —  stop,  and  go  back,  and  begin  again  in 
the  same  way. 

But  this  was  when  his  mind  was  in  its  most  distracted 
state.  In  all  the  other  phases  of  its  illness,  and  in  those 
to  which  it  was  most  constant,  it  always  turned  on  Flor- 
ence. What  he  would  oftenest  do  was  this :  he  would 
recall  that  night  he  had  so  recently  remembered,  the 
night  on  wliich  she  came  down  to  his  room,  and  would 
imagine  that  his  heart  smote  him,  and  that  he  went  out 
after  her,  and  up  the  stairs  to  seek  her.  Then,  confound- 
ing that  time  with  the  later  days  of  the  many  footsteps, 
he  would  be  amazed  at  their  number,  and  begin  to  count 
them  as  he  followed  her.  Here,  of  a  sudden,  was  a 
bloody  footstep  going  on  among  the  others ;  and  after  it 
there  began  to  be,  at  intervals,  doors  standing  open, 
through  which  certain  terrible  pictures  were  seen,  in 
mirrors,  of  haggard  men,  concealing  something  in  their 
breasts.  Still,  among  the  many  footsteps  and  the  bloody 
footsteps  here  and  there,  was  the  step  of  Florence.  Still* 
she  was  going  on  before.  Still  the  restless  mind  went, 
following  and  counting,  ever  farther,  ever  higher,  as  to 
the  summit  of  a  mighty  tower  that  it  took  years  to 
climb. 

One  day  he  inquired  if  that  were  not  Susan  who  had 
apoken  a  long  while  ago. 

Florence  said,  "  Yes,  dear  papa ; "  and  asked  hiw 
orould  he  like  to  see  her? 


312  DOMBEY  AND    SON. 

He  said  "  very  much."  And  Susan,  with  no  little 
trepidation,  showed  herself  at  his  bedside. 

It  seemed  a  great  relief  to  him.  He  begged  her  not 
to  go ;  to  understand  that  he  forgave  her  what  she  had 
said  ;  and  that  she  was  to  stay.  Florence  and  he  were 
very  different  now,  he  said,  and  very  ha[)py.  Let  hci 
look  at  this  !  He  meant  his  drawing  the  gentle  head 
down  to  his  pillow,  and  hiying  it  beside  him. 

He  remained  like  this  for  days  and  weeks.  At  length, 
lying  the  faint  feeble  semblance  of  a  man,  upon  his  bed, 
and  speaking  in  a  voice  so  low  that  they  could  only  hear 
him  by  listening  very  near  to  his  lips,  he  became  quiet. 
It  was  dimly  pleasant  to  him  now,  to  lie  there,  with  the 
window  open,  looking  out  at  the  summer  sky  and  the 
trees  :  and,  in  the  evening,  at  the  sunset.  To  watch  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds  and  leaves,  and  seem  to  feel  a 
sympathy  with  shadows.  It  was  natural  that  he  should. 
To  him,  life  and  the  world  were  nothing  else. 

He  began  to  show  now  that  he  thought  of  Florence's 
fatigue ;  and  often  taxed  his  weakness  to  whisper  to  her, 
"  go  and  walk,^  my  dearest,  in  the  sweet  air.  Go  to  your 
good  husband ! "  One  time  when  Walter  was  in  his 
room,  he  beckoned  him  to  come  near,  and  to  stoop  down ; 
and  pressing  his  hand,  whispered  an  assurance  to  him 
that  he  knew  he  could  trust  him  with  his  child  when  he 
was  dead. 

It  chanced  one  evening,  towards  sunset,  when  Flor- 
ence and  Walter  were  sitting  in  his  room  together,  as  he 
liked  to  see  them,  that  Florence,  having  her  baby  in  her 
arms,  began  in  a  low  voice,  to  sing  to  the  little  fellow, 
and  sang  the  old  tune  she  had  so  often  sung  to  the  dead 
child.  He  could  not  bear  it  at  the  time  ;  he  held  up  hia 
trembling  hand,  imploring  her  to  stop ;  but  next  day  he 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  318 

asked  her  to  repeat  it,  and  to  do  so  often  of  an  evening 
which  she  did.     He  listening,  with  his  face  turned  away. 

Florence  was  sitting  on  a  certain  time  hy  his  window, 
with  her  work-basket  between  her  and  her  old  attendant, 
who  was  still  her  faithful  companion.  He  had  fallen  into 
a  doze.  It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  with  two  hours  of 
light  to  come  yet ;  and  the  tranquillity  and  quiet  made 
Florence  very  thoughtful.  She  was  lost  to  everything 
for  the  moment,  but  the  occasion  when  the  so  altered 
figure  on  the  bed  had  first  presented  her  to  her  beautiful 
mama ;  when  a  touch  from  Walter  leaning  on  the  back 
of  her  chair,  made  her  start 

"  My  dear,"  said  Walter,  "  there  is  some  one  down- 
stairs who  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

She  fancied  Walter  looked  grave,  and  asked  him  if 
anything  had  happened. 

"  No,  no,  my  love  !  "  said  Walter.  "  I  have  seen  the 
gentleman  myself,  and  spoken  with  him.  Nothing  has 
happened.     Will  you  come  ?  " 

Florence  put  her  arm  through  his  :  and  confiding  her 
father  to  the  black-eyed  Mrs.  Toots,  who  sat  as  brisk 
and  smart  at  her  work  as  black-eyed  woman  could,  ac- 
companied her  husband  down-stairs.  In  the  pleasant  lit- 
tle parlor  opening  on  the  garden,  sat  a  gentleman,  who 
rose  to  advance  towards  her  when  she  came  in,  but 
turned  off,  by  reason  of  some  peculiarity  in  his  legs,  and 
was  only  stopped  by  the  table. 

Florence  then  remembered  Cousin  Feenix,  whom  she 
bad  not  at  first  recognized  in  the  shade  of  the  leaves. 
Cousin  Feenix  took  her  hand,  and  congratulated  her 
apon  her  marriage. 

"  I  could  have  wished,  1  am  sure,"  said  Cousin  Feenix 
sitting  down  as  Florence  sat,  "  to  have  had  an  earlier 


SI  4  DOMBET   AND  SON. 

opportunity  of  offering  my  congratulations  ;  but,  in  point 
of  fact,  so  many  painful  occurrences  have  happened, 
treading,  as  a  man  may  say,  on  one  another's  heels,  that 
I  have  been  in  a  devil  of  a  state  myself,  and  perfectly 
unfit  for  eveiy  description  of  society.  The  only  descrip- 
tion of  society  I  have  kept,  has  been  my  own  ;  and  it 
certainly  is  anything  but  flattaring  to  a  man's  good  opin- 
ion of  his  own  resources,  to  know  that,  in  point  of  fact, 
he  has  the  capacity  of  boring  himself  to  a  perfectly  un- 
limited extent," 

Florence  divined,  from  some  indefinable  constraint  and 
anxiety  in  this  gentleman's  manner —  which  was  always 
B  gentleman's,  in  spite  of  the  harmless  little  eccentrici- 
ties that  attached  to  it  —  and  from  Walter's  manner  no 
less,  that  something  more  immediately  tending  to  some 
object  was  to  follow  this. 

"  I  have  been  mentioning  to  my  friend  Mr.  Gay,  if 
I  may  be  allowed  to  have  the  honor  of  calling  him  so,'* 
said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  that  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  that 
my  friend  Dombey  is  very  decidedly  mending.  I  trust 
my  friend  Dombey  will  not  allow  his  mind  to  be  too 
much  preyed  upon,  by  any  mere  loss  of  fortune.  I  can- 
not say  that  I  have  ever  experienced  any  very  great 
loss  of  fortune  myself:  never  having  had,  in  point  of 
fact,  any  great  amount  of  fortune  to  lose.  But  as  much 
as  I  could  lose,  1  have  lost  ;  and  I  don't  find  that  J 
particularly  care  about  it.  I  know  my  friend  Dombey 
to  be  a  devilish  honorable  man  ;  and  it's  calculated  to 
console  my  friend  Dombey  very  much,  to  know,  that 
this  is  the  universal  sentiment.  Even  Tommy  Screwzer, 
jian  of  an  extremely  bilious  habit,  with  whom  my  friend 
Gay  is  probably  acquainted  —  cannot  say  a  syllable  in 
disputation  of  the  fact." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  S15 

Florence  felt,  more  than  ever,  that  there  was  some- 
thing to  come  ;  and  looked  earnestly  for  it.  So  ear- 
nestly, that  Cousin  Feenix  answered,  as  if  she  bad 
spoken. 

"  Tlie  fact  is,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  that  my  friend 
Gay  and  myself  have  been  discussing  the  propriety  of 
entreating  a  favor  at  your  hands ;  and  that  I  have  the 
consent  of  my  friend  Gay  —  who  has  met  me  in  an 
exceedingly  kind  and  open  manner,  for  which  I  am  very 
much  indebted  to  him  —  to  solicit  it.  I  am  sensible  that 
80  amiable  a  lady  as  the  lovely  and  accorn [dished  daugh- 
ter of  my  friend  Dombey  will  not  require  much  urg- 
ing ;  but  I  am  happy  to  know,  that  I  am  supported  by 
my  friend  Gay's  influence  and  approval.  As  in  ray 
parliamentary  time,  when  a  man  had  a  motion  to  make 
of  any  sort  —  which  happened  seldom  in  those  days, 
for  we  were  kept  very  tight  in  hand,  the  leaders  on 
both  sides  being  regular  martinets,  which  was  a  devilish 
good  thing  for  the  rank  and  file,  like  myself,  and  pre- 
vented our  exposing  ourselves  continually,  as  a  great 
many  of  us  had  a  feverish  anxiety  to  do  —  as,  in  my 
parliamentary  time,  I  was  about  to  say,  when  a  man 
had  leave  to  let  off  any  little  private  pop-gun,  it  was 
always  considered  a  great  point  for  him  to  say  that  he 
had  the  happiness  of  believing  that  his  sentiments  were 
not  without  an  echo  in  the  breast  of  Mr.  Pitt ;  the  pilot, 
in  point  of  fact,  who  had  weathered  the  storm.  Upon 
which,  a  devilish  large  number  of  fellows  immediately 
cheered,  and  put  him  in  spirits.  Though  the  fact  is, 
that  these  fellows,  being  under  orders  to  cheer  most 
excessively  whenever  Mr.  Pitt's  name  was  mentioned, 
became  so  proficient  thai  it  always  woke  'em.  And  they 
were  so  entirely  innocent  of  what  was  going  on,  other- 


316  DOMBEY   AND  SON. 

wise,  that  it  used  to  be  commonly  said  by  Conversa- 
tion Brown  —  four  bottle  man  at  the  Treasury  board, 
with  whom  the  father  of  my  friend  Gay  was  probably 
acquainted,  for  it  was  before  my  friend  Gay's  time  — 
that  if  a  man  had  risen  in  his  place,  and  said  that  ho 
regretted  to  inform  the  house  that  there  was  an  hou- 
orable  member  in  the  last  stage  of  convulsions  in  the 
Lobby,  and  that  the  honorable  member's  name  was  Pitt, 
the  approbation  would  have  been  vociferous." 

This  postponement  of  the  point,  put  Florence  in  a 
flatter ;  and  she  looked  from  Cousin  Feenix  to  Walter, 
in  increasing  agitation. 

'*  My  love,"  said  Walter,  "  there  is  nothing  the  mat- 
ter." 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter,  upon  my  honor,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix ;  "  and  I  am  deeply  distressed  at  being 
the  means  of  causing  you  a  moment's  uneasiness.  I  beg 
to  assure  you  that  there  is  nothing  the  matter.  The 
favor  that  I  have  to  ask  is,  simply  —  but  it  really  does 
seem  so  exceeding  singular,  that  I  should  be  in  the 
last  degree  obliged  to  my  friend  Gay  if  he  would  have 
the  goodness  to  break  the  —  in  point  of  fact,  the  ice," 
said  Cousin  Feenix.  ' 

Walter  thus  appealed  to^  and  appealed  to  no  less  in 
the  look  that  Florence  turned  towards  him,  said  : 

"My  dearest,  it  is  no  more  than  this.  That  you 
will  ride  to  London  with  this  gentleman,  whom  you 
know." 

"  And  my  friend  Gay,  also  —  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " 
interrupted  Cousin   Feenix. 

—  "And  with  me  —  and  make  a  visit  somewhere." 

**  To  whom  ? "  asked  Florence,  looking  from  one  to 
the  otiier. 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  817 

"  If  I  might  entreat,"  said  Cousiu  Feenix,  "  that  yon 
would  not  press  for  an  answer  to  that  question,  I  would 
venture  to  take  the  liberty  of  making  the  request." 

"  Do  you  know,  Walter  ?  "  said  Florence. 

«  Yes." 

"And  think  it  right?" 

"  Yes.  Only  because  I  am  sure  that  you  would,  too., 
lliough  there  may  be  reasons  I  very  well  understand 
which  make  it  better  that  nothing  more  should  be  said 
beforehand." 

"  If  papa  is  still  asleep,  or  can  spare  me  if  he  is 
awake,  I  will  go  immediately,"  said  Florence.  And  ris- 
ing quietly,  and  glancing  at  them  with  a  look  that  was 
a  little  alarmed  but  perfectly  confiding,  left  the  room. 

When  she  came  back,  ready  to  bear  them  company, 
they  were  talking  together,  gravely,  at  the  window  ;  and 
Florence  could  not  but  wonder  what  the  topic  was,  that 
had  made  them  so  well  acquainted  in  so  short  a  time. 
She  did  not  wonder  at  the  look  of  pride  and  love  with 
which  her  husband  broke  off  as  she  entered  ;  for  she 
never  saw  him,  but  that  rested  on  her. 

"  I  will  leave,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  a  card  for  my 
friend  Dombey,  sincerely  trusting  that  he  will  pick  up 
health  and  strength  with  every  returning  hour.  And 
I  hope  my  friend  Dombey  will  do  me  the  favor  to  con- 
sider me  a  man  who  has  a  devilish  warm  admiration 
of  his  character,  as,  in  point  of  fact,  a  British  merchant 
and  a  devilish  upright  gentleman.  My  place  in  the 
country  is  in  a  most  confounded  state  of  dilapidation, 
but  if  my  friend  Dombey  should  require  a  change  of 
air,  and  would  take  up  his  quarters  there,  he  would  find 
it  a  remarkably  healthy  spot  —  as  it  need  be,  for  it's 
amazingly  dull.     If  my  friend  Dombey  suffers  from  bod 


318  DOMBEr  AND  SON. 

fly  weakness,  and  would  allow  me  to  recommend  what 
has  frequently  done  myself  good,  as  a  man  who  haa 
been  extremely  queer  at  times,  and  who  lived  pretty 
freely  in  the  days  when  men  lived  very  freely,  I  should 
Bay,  let  it  be  in  point  of  fact  the  yolk  of  an  egg,  heat 
up  with  sugar  and  nutmeg,  in  a  glass  of  sherry,  and 
taken  in  the  morning  with  a  slice  of  dry  toast.  Jack- 
son, who  kept  the  boxing-rooms  in  Bond-street  —  man 
of  very  superior  qualifications,  with  whose  reputation  my 
friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted  —  used  to  mention 
that  in  training  for  the  ring  they  substituted  rum  for 
sherry.  I  should  recommend  sherry  in  this  case,  on 
account  of  my  friend  Dombey  being  in  an  invalided 
condition  ;  which  might  occasion  rum  to  fly  —  in  point 
of  fact  to  his  head  —  and  throw  hira  into  a  devil  of  a 
state." 

Of  all  this,  Cousin  Feenix  delivered  himself  with  an 
obviously  nervous  and  discomposed  air.  Then,  giving 
his  arm  to  Florence,  and  putting  the  strongest  possible 
constraint  upon  his  wilful  legs  which  seemed  deter- 
mined to  go  out  into  the  garden,  he  led  her  to  the  door 
and  handed  her  into  a  carriage  that  was  ready  for  her 
reception. 

Walter  entered  after  him,  and  they  drove  away. 

Their  ride  was  six  or  eigTit  miles  long.  "When  they 
drove  through  certain  dull  and  stately  streets,  \jiaf 
westward  in  London,  it  was  growing  dusk.  Florence 
had,  by  this  time,  put  her  hand  in  Walter's  ;  and  was 
looking  very  earnestly,  and  with  increasing  agitation^ 
into  every  new  street  into  which  they  turned. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  at  last,  before  that  house 
in  Brook-street,  where  her  father's  unhappy  marriage 
tiad   been  celebrated.   Florence  said,  "  Walter,  what  if 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  319 

this?  Who  is  here?"  Walter  cheering  her,  and  not 
replying,  she  glanced  up  at  the  house-front,  and  saw  that 
all  the  windows  were  shut,  as  if  it  were  uninhabited 
Cousin  Feeuix  had  by  this  time  alighted,  and  was  offer- 
ing his  hand. 

•'  Are  you  not  coming,  Walter  ?  " 

"  No,  I  will  remain  here.  Don't  tremble !  there  i  * 
DOthing  to  fear,  dearest  Florence." 

"  1  know  that,  Walter,  with  you  so  near.  I  am  siuh 
of  that,  but"  — 

The  door  was  softly  opened,  without  any  knock,  and 
Oousin  Feenix  led  her  out  of  the  summer  evening  air 
into  the  close  dull  house.  More  sombre  and  brown 
than  ever,  it  seemed  to  have  been  shut  up  from  the 
wedding-day,  and  to  have  hoarded  darkness  and  sad- 
ness ever  since. 

Florence  ascended  the  dusky  staircase,  trembling; 
and  stopped  with  her  conductor,  at  the  drawing-room 
door.  He  opened  it,  without  speaking,  and  signed  an 
entreaty  to  her  to  advance  into  the  inner  room,  while 
he  remained  there.  Florence,  after  hesitating  an  instant, 
oompUed. 

Sitting  by  the  window  at  a  table,  where  she  seemed 
to  have  been  writing  or  drawing,  was  a  lady,  whose 
head,  turned  away  towards  the  dying  light,  was  resting 
on  her  hand.  Florence  advancing,  doubtfully,  all  at 
once  stood  still,  as  if  she  had  lost  the  power  of  motion. 
The  lady  turned  her  head. 

"  Great  Heaven  !  "  she  said,  "  what  is  this  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Florence,  shrinking  back  as  she  rose 
(ip,  and  putting  out  her  hands  to  keep  her  off.  "  Mama !  " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Passion  and  pride 
had  worn  it,  but  it  was  the  face  of  Edith,  and  beautifu) 


S20  dombet  and  son. 

and  stately  yet.  It  was  the  face  of  Florence,  and 
through  all  ihe  terrified  avoidance  it  expressed,  there  was 
pity  in  it,  sorrow,  a  grateful  tender  memory.  On  each 
face,  wonder  and  fear  were  painted  vividly;  each,  80 
Btill  and  silent,  looking  at  the  other  over  the  black  gulf 
of  the  irrevocable  past. 

Florence  was  the  first  to  change.  Bursting  into  tears, 
ehe  said,  from  her  full  heart,  "  Oh  mama,  mama !  why 
do  we  meet  like  this  ?  Why  were  you  ever  kind  to  me 
when  there  was  no  one  else,  that  we  should  meet  like 
this  ?  " 

Edith  stood  before  her,  dumb  and  motionless.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"  I  dare  not  think  of  that,"  said  Florence,  "  I  am  come 
6x)m  papa's  sick-bed.  We  are  never  asunder  now  ;  we 
never  sluiU  be,  any  more.  If  you  would  have  me  ask 
his  pardon,  I  will  do  it,  mama.  I  am  almost  sure  he 
will  grant  it  now,  if  I  ask  him.  INIay  Heaven  grant  it  to 
you,  too,  and  comfort  you  !  " 

She  answered  not  a  word. 

"  Walter  —  I  am  manned  to  him,  and  we  have  a  son  " 
—  said  Florence,  timidly,  "  is  at  the  door,  and  has 
brought  me  here.  I  will  tell  him  that  you  are  repentant ; 
that  you  are  changed,"  said  Florence,  looking  mournfully 
upon  her  ;  '*  and  he  will  speak  to  papa  with  me,  I  know. 
Is  there  anything  but  this  that  I  can  do  ?" 

Edith,  breaking  her  silence,  without  moving  eye  or 
lirab,  answered  slowly : 

"  The  stain  upon  your  name^upon  your  husband's,  on 
ro  ir  child's.     Will  that  ever  be  forgiven,  Florence  ?  " 

"  Will  it  ever  be,  mama  ?  It  is !  Freely,  freely,  both 
by  Walter  and  by  me.  If  that  is  any  consolation  to  you, 
there  is  nothing  that  you  may  believe  more  certainly 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  321 

You  do  not  —  you  do  not,"  faltered  Florence,  "  s|)eak  of 
papa ;  but  I  am  sure  you  wish  that  I  should  ask  him  foi 
his  forgiveness.     1  am  sure  you  do." 

She  answei'ed  not  a  word. 

"  I  will !  "  said  Florence.  "  I  will  bring  it  you,  if  you 
will  let  me  ;  and  then,  perhaps,  we  may  take  leave  of 
each  other,  more  like  what  we  used  to  be  to  one  another. 
I  have  not,"  said  Florence  very  gently,  and  drawing 
nearer  to  her,  "  1  have  not  shrunk  back  from  you,  mama, 
because  I  fear  you,  or  because  1  dread  to  be  disgraced 
by  you.  I  only  wish  to  do  my  duty  to  papa.  I  am  very 
dear  to  him,  and  he  is  very  dear  to  me.  But  I  never 
can  forget  that  you  were  very  good  to  me.  Oh,  f)ray  to 
[Ieaven,"'cried  Florence,  falling  on  her  bosom,  "  pray  to 
Heaven,  mama,  to  forgive  you  all  this  sin  and  shame, 
and  to  forgive  me  if  I  cannot  help  doing  tliis  (if  it  i.s 
wrong),  when  I  remember  what  you  used  to  be  !  " 

Edith,  as  if  she  fell  beneath  her  touch,  sunk  down  on 
her  knees,  and  caught  her  round  the  neck. 

"  Florence  !  "  she  cried.  "  My  better  angel !  Before 
I  am  mad  again,  before  my  stubbornness  comes  back  and 
strikes  me  dumb,  believe  me,  upon  ray  soul  I  am  inno- 
cent." 

"  Mama !  " 

"  Guilty  of  much  !  Guilty  of  that  which  sets  a  waste 
between  us  evermore.  Guilty  of  what  must  sepai-ate 
me,  through  the  whole  remainder  of  my  life,  from  purity 
gnd  innocence  —  from  you,  of  all  the  earth.  Guilty  of 
a  blind  and  passionate  resentment,  of  which  I  do  not, 
cannot,  will  not,  even  now,  repent;  but  not  guilty  with 
that  dead  man.     Before  God  !  " 

Upon  her  knees  upon  the  ground,  she  held  up  both 
ber  hands  a"*!  swore  it. 

VOL.   IV.  81 


822  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Florence  !  "  she  said,  "  purest  and  best  of  natures,  -- 
whom  I  love  —  who  might  have  changed  me  long  ago, 
and  did  for  a  time  work  some  change  even  in  the  woman 
that  I  am, — believe  me,  I  am  innocent  of  that;  and 
once  more,  on  my  desolate  heart,  let  me  lay  this  dear 
bead,  for  the  la^t  time  ! " 

She  was  moved  and  weeping.  Had  she  been  oftener 
thus  in  older  days,  she  had  been  happier  now. 

"  There  is  nothing  else  in  all  the  world,"  she  stud, 
•*  that  would  have  wrung  denial  from  me.  No  love,  no 
hatred,  no  hope,  no  threat.  I  said  that  I  would  die,  and 
make  no  sign,  I  could  have  done  so,  and  I  would,  if  we 
had  never  met,  Florence." 

"  I  trust,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  ambling  in  at  the  door, 
and  speaking  half  in  the  room,  and  half  out  of  it,  "  that 
my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  will  excuse  my 
having,  by  a  little  stratagem,  effected  this  meeting.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  was,  at  first,  wholly  incredulous  a^  to 
the  possibility  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
having,  very  unfortunately,  committed  herself  with  the 
deceased  person  with  white  teeth ;  because,  in  point  of 
fact,  one  does  see,  in  this  world  —  which  is  remarkable 
for  devilish  strange  arrangements,  and  for  being  decid- 
edly the  most  unintelligible  thing  within  a  man's  expe- 
rience —  very  odd  conjunctions  of  that  sort.  But,  as  I 
mentioned  to  my  friend  Dombey,  I  could  not  admit  the 
criminality  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  until 
it  was  perfectly  established.  And  feeling,  when  the  de- 
ceased person  was,  in  point  of  fact,  destroyed  in  a  devil- 
ish horrible  manner,  that  her  pa'ation  was  a  very  pain- 
ftil  one  —  and  feeling  besides  that  our  family  had  been  a 
ittle  to  blame  in  not  paying  more  attention  to  her,  and 
Aat  we  are  a  careless  family  —  and  also  that  my  a-mt, 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  823 

though  a  devilish  lively  woman,  had  perhaps  not  been 
the  very  best  of  mothers  —  I  took  the  liberty  of  seeking 
her  in  France,  and  offering  her  such  protection  as  a  man 
very  much  out  at  elbows  could  offer.  Upon  which  occa- 
sion, my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  did  me  the 
honor  to  express  that  she  believed  I  was,  in  my  way,  a 
devilish  good  sort  of  fellow  ;  and  that  therefore  she  put 
herself  under  my  protection.  Which  in  point  of  fact  I 
understood  to  be  a  kind  thing  on  the  part  of  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative,  as  I  am  getting  extremely 
Bhaky,  and  have  derived  great  comfort  from  her  solio 
itude." 

Edith,  who  had  taken  Florence  to  a  sofa,  made  a  ges- 
ture with  her  hand  as  if  she  would  have  begged  him  to 
say  no  more. 

"My  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,"  resumed 
Cousin  Feenix,  still  ambling  about  at  the  door,  "  will 
excuse  me  if,  for  her  satisfaction,  and  ray  own,  and  that 
of  my  friend  Dombey,  whose  lovely  and  accomplished 
daughter  we  so  much  admire,  I  complete  the  thread  of 
my  observations.  She  will  remember  that,  from  the 
first,  she  and  I  have  never  alluded  to  the  subject  of  her 
elopement.  My  impression,  certainly,  has  always  been, 
that  there  was  a  mystery  in  the  affair  which  she  could 
explain  if  so  inclined.  But  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  being  a  devilish  resolute  woman,  I  knew  that 
she  was  not,  in  point  of  fact,  to  be  trifled  with,  and  there- 
fore did  not  involve  myself  in  any  discussions.  But, 
observing  lately,  that  her  accessible  point  did  appear  to 
be  a  very  strong  description  of  tenderness  for  the 
daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
if  I  could  bring  about  a  meeting,  unexpected  on  both 
lides,  it  might  lead  tc  beneficial  results.     Therefore,  we 


324  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

oeing  in  London,  in  the  present  private  way  before  going 
to  the  South  of  Italy,  there  to  establish  ourselves,  in 
point  of  fact,  until  we  go  to  our  long  homes,  which  is  a 
devilish  disagreeable  reflection  for  a  man,  I  applied  my 
self  to  the  discovery  of  the  residence  of  my  friend  Gay 
—  handsome  man  of  an  uncommonly  frank  disposition, 
who  is  probably  known  to  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  —  and  had  the  happiness  of  bringing  his  amiable 
wife  to  the  present  place.  And  now,"  said  Cousin  Fee- 
nix,  with  a  real  and  genuine  earnestness  shining  through 
the  levity  of  his  manner  and  his  slipshod  speech,  "  I  do 
conjure  my  relative,  not  to  stop  half-way,  but  to  set 
right,  as  far  as  she  can,  whatever  she  has  done  wrong  — 
not  for  the  honor  of  her  family,  not  for  her  own  fame, 
not  for  any  of  those  considerations  which  unfortunate 
circumstances  have  induced  her  to  regard,  as  hollow, 
and  in  point  of  fact,  as  approaching  to  humbug — ])ut 
because  it  is  wi'ong,  and  not  right." 

Cousin  Feenix's  legs  consented  to  take  him  away  after 
this ;  and  leaving  them  alone  together,  he  shut  the  door. 

Edith  remained  silent  for  some  minutes,  with  Florence 
sitting  close  beside  her.  Then  she  took  from  her  bosom 
R  sealed  paper. 

"  I  debated  with  myself  a  long  time,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice,  "  whether  to  write  this  at  all,  in  case  of  dying 
suddenly  or  by  accident,  and  feeling  the  want  of  it  upon 
me.  I  have  deliberated,  ever  since,  when  and  how  to 
destroy  it.  Take  it,  Florence.  The  truth  is  written  in 
t." 

"  Is  it  for  papa  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

"  It  is  for  whom  you  will,"  she  answeied.  "  It  is  given 
to  you,  and  is  obtained  by  you.  He  never  could  have 
had  it  othei  wise." 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  323 

Again  they  sat  silent,  in  the  deepening  darkness. 

"  Mama,"  said  Florence,  "  he  has  lost  his  fortune  ;  be 
has  been  at  the  point  of  death  ;  he  may  not  recover 
even  now.  Is  there  any  word  that  I  shall  say  to  him 
from  you  ?  " 

**  Did  you  tell  me,"  asked  Edith,  "  that  you  were  very 
dear  to  him  ?  " 

**  Yes  ! "  said  Florence,  in  a  thrilling  voice. 

•*  Tell  him  I  am  sorry  that  we  ever  met." 

"  No  more  ?  "  said  Florence  after  a  pause. 

"  Tell  him,  if  he  asks,  that  I  do  not  repent  of  what  I 
have  dono  —  not  yet  —  for  if  it  were  to  do  again  to-mor- 
row, I  should  do  it.     But  if  he  is  a  changed  man  "  — 

She  stopped.  There  was  something  in  the  silent 
touch  of  Florence's  hand  that  stopped  her. 

—  "  But  that  being  a  changed  man,  he  knows,  now,  it 
would  never  be.     Tell  him  I  wish  it  never  had  been." 

"  May  I  say,"  said  Florence,  "  that  you  grieved  to 
hear  of  the  afflictions  he  has  suffered  ? " 

"  Not,"  she  replied,  "  if  they  have  taught  him  that  his 
daughter  is  very  dear  to  him.  He  will  not  grieve  foi 
them  himself,  one  day,  if  they  have  brought  that  lesson 
Florence." 

"  You  wish  well  to  him,  and  would  have  him  happy. 
I  am  sure  you  would !  "  said  Florence.  "  Oh  !  let  mc 
be  able,  if  I  have  the  occasion  at  some  future  time  to  say  , 

BO?" 

Edith  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  gazing  steadfastly  before 
her,  and  did  not  reply  until  Florence  had  repeated  her 
entreaty  ;  when  she  drew  her  hand  within  her  arm,  and 
said,  with  the  same  thoughtful  gaze  upon  the  night  out- 
lide  : 

**  Tell  him  that  if,  in  bis  own  present,  he  can  find  anj 


826  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

reason  to  compassionate  my  past,  I  sent  word  that  1 
asked  liim  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present, 
he  can  find  a  reason  to  think  less  bitterly  of  me,  I  asked 
him  to  do  so.  Tell  him,  that,  dead  as  we  are  to  one  an* 
other,  never  more  to  meet  on  this  side  of  eternity,  he 
knows  there  is  one  feeling  in  common  between  us  now, 
that  there  never  was  before." 

Her  sternness  seemed  to  yield,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  dark  eyes. 

"  1  trust  myself  to  that,"  she  said,  "  for  his  better 
thoughts  of  me,  and  mine  of  him.  When  he  loves  his 
Florence  most,  he  will  hate  me  least.  When  he  is  most 
proud  and  happy  in  her  and  her  children,  he  will  be 
most  repentant  of  his  own  part  in  the  dark  vision  of  our 
married  life.  At  that  time,  I  will  be  repentant  too  — 
let  him  know  it  then  —  and  think  that  when  I  thought 
so  much  of  all  the  causes  that  had  made  me  what  I  was, 
I  needed  to  have  allowed  more  for  the  causes  that  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  I  will  try,  then,  to  forgive  him 
his  share  ofjjianie.     Let  him  try  to  forgive  me  mine  ! " 

"  Oh  mama  I  "  said  Florence.  "  How  it  lightens  my 
heart,  even  in  such  a  meeting  and  parting,  to  hear  this ! " 

"  Strange  words  in  my  own  ears,"  said  Edith,  "  and 
foreign  to  the  sound  of  my  own  voice !  But  even  if  I 
had  been  the  wretched  creature  I  have  given  him  occa- 
sion to  believe  me,  I  think  1  could  have  said  them  still, 
hearing  that  you  and  he  were  very  dear  to  one  another 
Let  him,  when  you  are  dearest,  ever  feel  that  he  is  most 
fotbearing  in  his  thoughts  of  me  —  that  I  am  most  for- 
bearing in  my  thoughts  of  him !  Those  are  the  la8t 
words  I  send  him  !     Now,  go6d-by,  my  life  !  " 

She  clasped  her  in  her  arms,  and  seemed  to  pour  out 
all  her  woman  s  soul  of  love  and  tenderness  at  once 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  327 

**  This  kiss  for  your  child  !  These  kisses  for  a  bios* 
ing  on  your  head!  My  own  dear  Florence,  my  sweet 
girl,  farewell !" 

"  To  meet  again  !  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Never  again  !  Never  again  !  When  you  leave  me 
In  this  dark  room,  think  that  you  have  left  me  in  the 
grave.  Remember  only  that  I  was  once,  and  that  1 
loved  you  ! " 

And  Florence  left  her,  seeing  her  face  no  more,  but 
accompanied  by  her  embraces  and  caresses  to  the  last. 

Cousin  Feenix  met  her  at  the  door,  and  took  her  down 
to  Walter  in  the  dingy  dining-room,  upon  whose  shoulder 
she  laid  her  head  weeping. 

"  I  am  devilish  sorry,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  lifting  his 
wristbands  to  his  eyes  in  the  simplest  manner  possible, 
and  without  the  least  concealment,  "  that  the  lovely  and 
*;complished  daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey  and  amia- 
ble wife  of  my  friend  Gay,  should  have  had  her  sensitive 
nature  so  very  much  distressed  and  cut  up  by  the  inter- 
view which  is  just  concluded.  But  I  hope  and  trust  I 
have  acted  for  the  best,  and  that  my  honorable  friend 
Dombey  will  find  his  mind  relieved  by  the  disclosures 
which  have  taken  place.  I  exceedingly  lament  that  my 
friend  Dombey  should  have  got  himself,  in  point  of  fact, 
into  the  devil's  own  state  of  conglomeration  by  an  al- 
liance with  our  family  ;  but  am  strongly  of  opinion  that 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  infernal  scoundrel  Barker  — 
man  with  white  teeth  —  everything  would  have  gone  on 
pretty  smoothly.  In  regard  to  my  relative  who  does  me 
Uie  honor  to  have  formed  an  uncommonly  good  opinion 
of  myself,  I  can  assure  the  amiable  wife  of  my  friend 
Gray,  that  she  may  rely  on  my  being,  in  point  of  fact,  a 
(athei  to  her.     And  in  regard  to  the  changes  of  human 


326  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

life,  and  the  extraordinary  manner  in  which  we  are  per 
petually  conducting  ourselves,  all  I  can  say  is,  with  my 
friend  Slaakspeare  —  man  who  wasn't  for  an  age  but  for 
all  time,  and  with  whom  my  friend  Gay  is  no  dovbt 
acquainted  —  that  it's  like  the  shadow  of  a  dretun." 


DOMBET  AND  SON.  829 


CHAPTER  LXIL 

VVSAU 

A  BOTTLE  that  has  been  long  excluded  from  the  light 
of  day,  and  is  hoary  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  has  been 
brought  into  the  sunshine ;  and  the  golden  wine  within 
it  sheds  a  lustre  on  the  table.  » 

It  is  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Dombey. 
"This  is  a  very  rare  and  most  delicious  wine." 

The  captain,  who  is  of  the  party,  beams  with  joy. 
There  is  a  very  halo  of  delight  round  his  glowing  fore- 
head. 

"  We  always  promised  ourselves,  sir,"  observes  Mr. 
Gills,  "Ned  and  myself,  I  mean"  — 

Mr.  Dombey  nods  at  the  captain,  who  shines  more 
and  more  with  speechless  gratification. 

—  "  that  we  would  drink  this,  one  day  or  other,  to 
Walter  safe  at  home :  though  such  a  home  we  never 
thought  of.  If  you  don't  object  to  our  old  whim,  sir,  let 
Ds  devote  this  first  glass  to  Walter  and  his  wife." 

"To  Walter  and  -liis  wife!"  says  Mr.  DcmlMy. 
Florence,  my  child  "  —  and  turns  to  kiss  her. 

'•To  Walter  and  his  wife!"  says  Mr.  Toots. 

"  To  Wal'r  and  his  wife  1 "  exclaims  the  captain. 
•  Hooroar !  "  and  the  captain  exhibiting  a  strong  deairo 
to  clink  his  glass  against  some  other  glass,  Mr.  Dombey, 


330  DOMBET  ANE   SON. 

with  a  ready  hand,  holds  out  his.  The  others  follow ; 
and  thei-e  is  a  blithe  and  merry  ringing,  as  of  a  little 
{)eal  of  marriage-bells. 

Other  buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did 
in  its  time ;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Mr.  Dombey  is  a  white-haii'ed  gentleman,  whose  face 
bears  heavy  marks  of  care  and  suffering ;  but  they  are 
traces  of  a  storm  that  has  passed  on  forever,  and  left  a 
clear  evening  in  its  tj-ack. 

Ambitious  projects  trouble  him  no  more.  His  only 
pride  is  in  his  daughter  and  her  husband.  He  has  a  silent, 
thoughtful,  quiet  manner,  and  is  always  with  his  daugh- 
ter. Miss  Tox  is  not  unfrequently  of  the  family  party, 
and  is  quite  devoted  to  it,  and  a  great  favorite.  Her  ad- 
miration of  her  once  stately  patron  is,  and  has  been  ever 
since  the  morning  of  her  shock  in  Princess'-place,  pla- 
toriic,  but  not  weakened  in  the  least. 

Nothing  has  drifted  to  him  from  the  wreck  of  liis  for- 
tunes, but  a  certain  annual  sura  that  comes  he  knows  not 
how,  with  an  earnest  entreaty  that  he  will  not  seek  to 
discover,  and  with  the  assurance  that  it  is  a  debt,  and  an 
act  of  reparation.  He  has  consulted  with  his  old  clerk 
about  this,  who  is  clear  it  may  be  honorably  accepted, 
and  has  no  doubt  it  arises  out  of  some  forgotten  transao- 
lion  in  the  times  of  the  old  House. 

That  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  a  bachelor  no  more,  is  mar- 
ried now,  and  to  the  sister  of  the  gray-haired  junior.  He 
visits  his  old  chief  sometimes,  but  seldom.  There  is  a 
reason  in  the  gray -haired  junior's  history,  and  yet  a 
stronger  reason  in  his  name,  why  he  should  keep  retired 
frooi  his  old  employer;  and  as  he  lives  with  his  sister 
and  her   husband,  they  participate  in  that  retirement 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  331 

Waller  sees  them  sometimes  —  Florence  too  —  and  the 
pleasant  house  resounds  with  profound  duets  arranged 
for  the  pianoforte  and  violoncello,  and  with  the  labomof 
Harmouious  Blacksmiths. 

And  how  goes  the  Wooden  Midshipman  in  these 
changed  days  ?  Why,  here  he  still  is,  right  leg  for^ 
most,  hard  at  work  upon  the  hackney-coaches,  and  more 
on  the  alert  than  ever,  being  newly  painted  from  hu 
cocked  hat  to  his  buckled  shoes ;  and  up  above  him,  in 
golden  charactei's,  these  names  shine  refulgent,  Gills 
AND  Cuttle. 

Not  anothw  stroke  of  business  does  the  Midshipman 
achieve  beyond  his  usual  easy  trade.  But  they  do  say, 
in  a  circuit  of  some  half  mile  round  the  blue  umbrella  in 
Leadenhall  Market,  that  some  of  Mr.  Gills's  old  invest- 
ments are  coming  out  wonderfully  well;  and  that  instead 
of  being  behind  the  time  in  those  respects,  as  he  sup- 
posed, he  was,  in  truth,  a  httle  before  it,  and  had  to  wait 
the  fulness  of  the  time  and  the  design.  The  uiiisper  is 
that  Mr.  Gills's  money  has  begun  to  turn  itself,  and  that 
it  is  turning  itself  over  and  over  pretty  briskly.  Certain 
it  is  that,  standing  at  his  shop-door,  in  his  coffee-colored 
Buit,  with  his  chronometer  in  his  pocket,  and  his  spec- 
tacles on  his  foreliead,  he  don't  appear  to  break  his  heart 
at  custon)ers  not  coming,  but  looks  very  jovial  and  con- 
tented, though  full  as  misty  as  of  yore. 

As  to  his  partner,  Captain  Cuttle,  there  is  a  fiction  of 
a  business  in  the  captain's  mind  which  is  better  than  any 
reality.  The  captain  is  as  satisfied  of  the  Midshipman's 
importance  to  the  commerce  and  navigation  of  the  coun- 
try, as  he  could  possibly  be,  ii"  no  ship  left  the  port  of 
London  without  the  Midshipman's  assistance.  His  de- 
light in  his  own  name  over  the  door,  is  inexhaustible. 
He  crosses  the  street,  twentv  times  a  dav,  to  look  at  it 


332  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

from  the  other  side  of  the  way ;  and  invariably  says,  on 
these  occasions,  "  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  if  your  mother 
could  ha'  know'd  as  you  would  ev(.T  be  a  man  o'  science, 
the  good  old  creetur  would  ha*  been  took  aback  in-deed  I " 

But  here  is  Mr.  Toots  descending  on  the  Midshipman 
with  violent  rapidity,  and  Mr.  Toots's  face  is  very  red  as ' 
he  bursts  into  the  little  parlor. 

«  Captain  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "and  Mr.  Sols,  I 
am  happy  to  inform  you  that  Mrs.  Toots  has  had  an  in* 
crease  to  her  family." 

"  And  it  does  her  credit !  "  cries  the  captain. 

"  I  give  you  joy,  Mr.  Toots !  "  says  old  Sol. 

"  Thankee,"  chuckles  Mr.  Toots,  "  I'm  vei*y  much 
obliged  to  you.  I  knew  that  you'd  be  glad  to  hear, 
and  so  I  came  down  myself.  We're  positively  getting 
on,  you  know.  There's  Florence,  and  Susan,  and  now 
here's  another  little  stranger." 

'*  A  female  stranger  ?  "  inquires  the  captain. 

"  Yes,  Captain  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  and  I'm  glad 
of  it.  The  oflener  we  can  repeat  that  most  extraor 
dinary  woman,  ray  opinion  is,  the  better ! " 

"  Stand-by  ! "  says  the  captain,  turning  to  the  old  case- 
bottle  with  no  throat  —  for  it  is  evening,  and  the  Mid- 
shipman's usual  moderate  provisions  of  pipes  and  glasses 
is  on  the  board.  "  Here's  to  her,  and  may  she  have  ever 
K>  many  more  !  " 

"  Thankee,  Captain  Gills,"  says  the  delighted  Mr. 
Toots.  "  I  echo  the  sentiment.  If  you'll  allow  me,  as 
my  so  doing  cannot  be  unpleasant  to  anybody,  under  the 
circumstances,  I  think  I'll  take  a  pipe." 

Mr.  Toots  begins  to  smoke,  accordingly,  and  in  the 
openness  of  his  heart  is  very  loquacious. 

"  Of  all  the  remarkable  instances  that  that  delightful 
voman  has  given  of  her  excellent  sense,  Captain  Gills 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  333 

and  Mr.  Sols,"  says  Toots,  "  I  think  none  is  more  re- 
markable than  the  perfection  with  wliich  she  has  undei* 
Btood  ray  devotion  to  Miss  Dombey." 

Both  liis  auditors  assent. 

''  Because,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  /have  never 
changed  my  sentiments  towards  Miss  Dotnbey.  They 
are  the  same  as  ever.  She  is  the  same  bright  vision  to 
me,  at  present,  that  she  was  before  I  made  Walters's  ac- 
quaintance. When  Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  first  began  to 
talk  of — in  short,  of  the  tender  passion,  you  know,  Cap 
tain  Gills." 

"  Ay,  ay,  ray  lad,"  says  the  captain,  "  as  makes  us  aU 
Blue  round  —  for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  book  "  —     ( 

"  I  shall  certainly  do  so.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mi 
Toots,  with  great  earnestness ;  "  when  we  first  began 
to  mention  such  subjects,  I  explained  that  I  was  what 
you  may  call  a  blij^ited  flower,  you  know." 

The  captain  approves  of  this  figure  greatly  ;  and  mur- 
murs that  no  flower  as  blows,  is  like  the  rose. 

"  But  Lord  bless  me,"  pursues  Mr.  Toots,  "  she  was 
as  entirely  conscious  of  the  state  of  my  feelings  as  I  was 
myself.  There  was  nothing  I  could  tell  her.  She  was 
the  only  person  who  could  have  stood  between  me  and 
the  silent  tomb,  and  she  did  it,  in  a  manner  to  command 
my  everlasting  admiration.  She  knows  that  there's  no- 
body in  the  world  I  look  up  to,  as  I  do  to  Miss  Dombey. 
She  knows  that  there's  nothing  on  earth  I  wouldn't  do 
for  Miss  Dombey.  She  knows  that  I  consider  her  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  amiable,  the  most  angelic  of  hef 
3ex.  What  is  her  observation  upon  that  ?  The  perfcc- 
lion  of  sense.     '  My  dear  you're  right.     /  think  so  too.'" 

*'  And  so  do  I! "  says  the  captam. 

♦♦  So  do  I,"  says  Sol  Gills. 

"Thew,"  resumes  Mr.  Toots,  after  some  contemplative 


B34  DOBIBEY  AND  SON. 

pulling  at  his  pipe,  during  which  his  visage  has  ex 
pressed  the  most  contented  reflection,  "  what  an  ob* 
servant  woman  my  wife  is !  What  sagacity  she  pos- 
sesses !  What  remarks  she  makes !  It  ^'as  only  last 
night,  when  we  were  sitting  in  the  enjoyment  of"  con- 
nubial bliss  —  which,  upon  my  word  and  honor,  is  a 
feeble  term  to  express  my  feelings  in  the  society  of  my 
wife  —  that  she  said  how  remarkable  it  was  to  consider 
the  present  position  of  our  friend  Walters.  '  Here,'  ob- 
serves my  wife,  '  he  is,  released  from  sea-going,  after 
that  first  long  voyage  with  his  young  bride '  —  as  you 
know  he  was,  Mr.  Sols." 

"  Quite  true,"  <5ays  the  old  Instrument-maker,  rubbing 
his  hands.  ^ 

" '  Here  he  is,'  says  my  wife,  '  released  from  that, 
immediately ;  appointed  by  the  same  establishment  to  a 
post  of  great  trust  and  confidence  at  home ;  showing 
himself  again  worthy ;  mounting  up  the  ladder  with  the 
greatest  expedition ;  beloved  by  everybody  ;  assisted  by 
his  uncle  at  the  very  best  possible  time  of  iiis  fortunes  ' 
—  which  I  think  is  the  case,  Mr.  Sols  ?  My  wife  is 
always  correct." 

"  Why  yes,  yes  —  some  of  our  lost  ships,  freighted 
with  gold,  have  come  home,  truly,"  returns  old  Sol, 
laughing.  "  Small  craft,  Mr.  Toots,  but  serviceable  Vb 
my  boy ! " 

"  Exactly  so  !  "  says  Mr.  Toots.  "  You'll  never  find 
my  wife  wrong.  '  Here  he  is,'  says  that  most  remark- 
able woman,  '  so  situated,  —  and  what  follows  ?  What 
follows  ? '  observed  Mrs.  Toots.  Now  pray  remark, 
Captain  Gills,  and  Mr.  Sols,  the  depth  of  my  wife's 
oenetration.  '  Why  that,  under  the  very  eye  of  Mr. 
Domlyiy,  there  is  a  foundation  going  on,  upon  which 
*  —  an  Edifice ; '  that  was  Mrs.  Toots's  word."  pa>  >  Y^r 


DOMBEY  AND  SOX.  335 

Toots,  -Miliiiigly,  "'is  gradually  rising  perhaps  to  equal, 
perhaps  excel,  thai  of  which  he  was  once  the  head,  and 
the  small  beginnicgs  of  which  (a  common  fault,  but  a 
bad  one,  Mrs.  Toots  said)  escaped  his  memory.  Thus/ 
said  my  wife,  'from  his  daughter,  after  all,  another 
Dombey  and  Son  will  ascend  '  —  no  '  rise ; '  that  waa 
Mrs.  Toots's  word  —  '  triumphant ! ' " 

Mr.  Toots,  with  the  assistance  of  his  pipe  —  which  he 
is  extremely  glad  to  devote  to  oratorical  purposes,  as  ita 
proper  use  affects  him  with  a  very  uncomfortable  sensa- 
tion —  does  such  grand  justice  to  this  prophetic  sentence 
of  his  wife's,  that  the  captain,  throwing  away  his  glazed 
bat  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  excitement,  cries : 

"  Sol  Gills,  you  man  of  science,  and  my  ould  pardner, 
what  did  I  tell  Wal'r  to  overhaul  on  that  there  night 
when  he  first  took  to  business  ?  Was  it  this  here  quota- 
tion, '  Turn  again  Whittington  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
and  when  you  are  old  you  tfrill  never  depart  from  iu' 
Was  it  them  words,  Sol  Gills  ? " 

"  It  certainly  was,  Ned,"  replied  the  old  Instrument- 
maker.     "  I  remember  well." 

•  "  Then  I  tell  you  what,"  says  the  captain,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  and  composing  his  chest  for  a  prodig- 
ious roar.  "I'll  give  you  Lovely  Peg  right  through; 
and  stand  by,  both  on  you,  for  the  chorus  1 " 

Uuried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Jkladeira  did,  in 
Vs  lime ;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Autumn  days  are  shining,  and  on  the  sea-beach  there 
are  often  a  young  lady,  and  a  white-haired  gentleman. 
With  them  or  near  them,  are  two  children  :  boy  and 
girl.     And  an  old  dog  is  generally  in  their  company. 

The  wliite-liaired  gentleman  walks  with  the  little  boy, 
talks  with  bin,  helps  him  in  his  play,  attends  upon  liij'- 


S36  DOMBET  AND  SON. 

walclies  liim.  as  if  he  were  the  object  of  his  life.  If  he 
is  thoughtful,  the  white-haired  gentleman  is  thoughtftU 
too  ;  and  sometimes  when  the  child  is  sitting  by  his  side, 
and  looks  up  iu  his  face,  asking  him  questions,  he  takes 
the  tiny  hand  in  his,  and  holding  it,  forgets  to  answei. 
Then  the  child  says : 

''  What,  grandpapa,  am  1  so  like  my  poor  little  uncle 
again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Paul.  But  he  was  weak,  and  you  are  very 
strong." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  am  very  strong." 

"  And  he  lay  on  a  little  bed  beside  the  sea,  and  yoa 
can  run  about." 

And  so  they  range  away  again,  busily,  for  the  white- 
haired  gentleman  likes  best  to  see  the  child  free  and 
stirring;  and  as  they  go  about  together,  the  story  of  the 
bond  between  them  goes  about,  and  follows  them. 

But  no  one,  except  Fforence,  knows  the  measure  of 
the  white-haired  gentleman's  affection  for  the  girl.  That 
story  never  goes  about.  The  child  herself  almost  won- 
ders at  a  certain  secrecy  he  keeps  in  it.  He  hoards  hei 
in  his  heart.  He  cannot  bear  to  see  a  cloud  upon  her 
lace.  He  cannot  bear  to  see  her  sit  aparL  He  fancies 
that  she  feels  a  slight,  when  there  is  none.  He  steals 
away  to  look  at  her,  in  her  sleep.  It  pleases  him  to 
have  her  come,  and  wake  him  in  the  morning.  He  is 
fondest  of  her  and  most  loving  to  her,  when  there  ia 
no  creature  by.     The  child  says  then,  sometimes: 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  why  do  you  cry  when  you  kis 
me?" 

He  only  answers  "  Little  Florence !  Little  Florence ! " 
and  smooths  away  the  curls  that  shade  her  earnest  eyes. 


Ao  . 


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